Deductions & Inferences
by SparkRevolutions
Summary: A new tenant moves into 221C-will Sherlock be able to deduce everything about her? Or will her nervous tendencies make things more difficult? M to be safe. Reviews appreciated. Sherlock/OC
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I only own Marlene. **

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"You've got all your things, dear?"

Marlene scrunched her shoulder up to her jaw, clasping the red plastic handset awkwardly to her ear without the aid of her hands, busy folding clothing and packing the garments into a large cardboard box.

"Yes, just finishing up putting the last of my clothes in the boxes. I do hope there's adequate closet space." She replied, laughing lightly to indicate a jest, brushing back a small chunk of hair, putting a lid on the box and smiling into the receiver. Smiling because the move might make it all okay now, and if she smiled, she'd believe it. "I'll be there with the moving trucks around one in the afternoon, if that's alright with you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Perfectly fine!" The landlady chirped with delight on the other end of the line, then a residual "ding" echoed in Marlene's ear before she could say anything else. Marlene gulped, and looked out the picture window for the last time, at the nice street, the nice neighborhood; turned around, took a last, long look at the nice flat that was now too expensive for a budding author, and picked up the box, forcing each footstep as she exited.

_A change of pace will be good, Marlene. _She told herself, hoping she'd believe it, dropping the last box into the rent-a-truck. _New people, new places, new experiences. A…a….rest…from what's been happening lately. _

The cost of living had just been so high, she reflected, too high for her, and the move was absolutely necessary. Her doctor was chiding her for not eating enough, both because of the anxiety and the lack of funds, for her nervous behavior…

_Enough._ She waved a dismissive hand at her own thoughts as she turned the ignition key and the engine immediately roared to life; she jumped. _Calm down. Moving will ease all the tension, you'll stop worrying about the money, the panic attacks will get less frequent, they might even stop…_

She shook her head again as she drove off. Panic attacks had plagued her since she was twelve, at twenty-seven, they had come back, after a stressful book deal (she'd put off most of the writing until the last two weeks) and an idiot of a boyfriend (who decided to call her every waking moment to see if the book was "making progress") and the medication that obviously did nothing.

_Stop it, girl. This is a new beginning. A new chapter. _She thought, cutting off her rambling mind, looking out to the London skyline, a foreign feeling of hope clinging at her heartstrings. _And I'm leaving the panic attacks here. I'm done with them. _

"Ah, there you are!" Mrs. Hudson waved at the woman who wearily opened up the rent-a-truck's beat-up, off-white door. Marlene surveyed her carefully, finally deciding, that it was, in fact, the woman who'd phoned her. She was an older woman, eyes a bit sunken with age, sandy, graying hair in a short cut, wearing a blue cardigan over a matching floral shirt tucked into dove grey pants with black loafers. A grandmother. Marlene hauled herself down from the high-set driver's seat and hurried across the sidewalk to the grandmotherly woman.

"Mrs. Hudson, it's a pleasure to finally meet you in person." Marlene merely heard herself say these things, feeling terrible that the introduction was so dull, allowing a warm smile onto her usually bland face.

"Here are the keys, dear, you're 221C. Welcome! Tell me when you get settled, I'll make some tea and introduce you to the other tenants." Mrs. Hudson said, in an ever-bright tone, sauntering into a nearby establishment labeled "Speedy's Café."

Marlene pulled up the garage-like door of the rent-a-truck, then rested, looking at the open door of the flats, revealing a steep staircase. Bloody hell. How was she going to get a settee, an arm chair, a dining set, and a bedroom set up to 221 C without killing herself?

_Best to start with the boxes then._ She noted, taking a cardboard monstrosity full of dishes and beginning to lug it up the stairs. Eighteen steps. _Not so bad, then. _

By 3:30 all the boxes were up the stairs, the furniture seemed to leer out of the back of the truck at her. She groaned, started to tug at the settee.

"Oh dear!"

Mrs. Hudson. Marlene smiled, sure that her face was beet-red from exertion, unhanded the setee.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson. I can't seem to get my sofa upstairs." She said, still smiling though her arms were screaming with exhaustion, then went back to the settee, wiggling it around at different angles in an attempt to safely remove it.

"Let me get the boys to help you," The landlady said, then promptly bounded up the worn staircase. "John! Sherlock! Someone needs your assistance!"

"Really, Mrs. Hudson, I can just call some movers-"

"Nonsense." The older woman replied. Then, tipping her head toward Marlene confidentially. "Too expensive, if you ask me, especially when there's able bodied men about the house." And again, louder: "Sherlock! John! Your new neighbor is here!"

"How dull."

A resonating masculine voice responded this time, followed by eighteen quick yet careful footsteps, then another eighteen steps, closer together and heavier-sounding.

Marlene wiped her hands on her jeans, then looked up at the men, Sherlock and John apparently.

John could see his flatmate zero in on the little details of the newcomer as they approached. It was almost creepy, how Sherlock got so intent on them. As far as John could see, the lady was tall, blond, not unattractive. She looked at the two of them with a smile. Back to Sherlock, who was taking the few seconds of observation and deduction. Probably noticing the type of shoes she wore, her body mass index. He rolled his eyes involuntarily.

Sherlock, on the other hand, stared for a few brief seconds, drinking in the details.

_Light blond hair-nearly platinum, though she enhances it with highlights. Light gray eyes, pale skin tone-of some Nordic descent, most likely, sharp little features. Wearing faded clothes, not expensive in the first place, but old, perhaps financial trouble? Little to no jewelry, little to no makeup, hair cut short and angularly-low maintenance. Obviously does not work where she is seen often-a writer. No pets. Slim-not fit, probably sees the doctor for a nervous condition, judging by her posture-upright yet tentative. _

"John Watson," The shorter, towheaded man said, extending an arm. Marlene felt her bland features perk up once more, accepted the handshake. "And Sherlock Holmes, my colleague and flatmate."

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**Thoughts so far? Tell me if I should do romance or friendship!**


	2. Chapter 2

"Mr. Holmes," Marlene stuck her hand out, her pale wrist poking out from under her black shirt sleeve, the hand expectant yet somehow hesitant-sort of similar to the woman's posture. The man gave her the most analytical of glances, which she courageously returned, but made no gesture to offer his hand. Hers retreated back into the front pocket of her jeans as Holmes pursed his lips with some distaste. "Marlene Tate." She said quietly. The small speckles of debris on the pavement suddenly became fascinating. His exterior was cold, and the greeting followed suit.

"Dreadfully sorry that we had to meet this way for the first time," _In more ways than one, inconsiderate ass. _ She thought, smiling kindly at him. A grown man, acting like a child who'd been served a helping of vegetables. "But I'm having an awful time moving my furniture." This didn't change Holmes' expression. She looked hopefully to Watson. He was easier to talk to, less imposing.

"We'll be happy to help," John said quickly, perhaps eagerly. _So they aren't gay then? _Marlene wondered, smirking as she turned to the looming furniture in the back of the rent-a-truck.

Sherlock simply folded his arms and said nothing for a while, but as she climbed up the ramp and began to move the settee, he opened his mouth.

"Marlene Tate. A writer." He said, with a certain self-glorifying narcissism that nearly made her vomit on the sidewalk. She trained her focus on him, regulating her breaths, lifting one side of the settee, John covering the other one.

"Ah, yes. Then you've heard of me. Good. Well, what genre?" Marlene asked, a corner of her mouth involuntarily pulling upward. She fought to push it back down.

"Mystery. Your mother is from Norway; you put highlights in your hair, you're in some financial trouble by the looks of it, and you have a nervous condition." Sherlock answered. Marlene went agape for a moment, a little smirk settled on Sherlock's mouth, and an apologetic John sat down his end of the sofa.

"I am so sorry, Miss Tate, he does this to everyone-" John began, but she just waved her hand limply at the two of them, the quintessential _whatever_ gesture. "I mean, it does tend to upset people-"

"Really? I thought it was quite brilliant." Marlene said, putting her edge of the sofa on the ramp and a hand on her hip. Was that little smirk on Holmes' face before? _No. Now there's a man who likes his ego stroked. _ She stifled a small laugh. "Although, you messed up a bit. My _grandmother_ is the one from Norway." Triumph corrected the tentative posture and her nostrils flared delicately. The little smirk dropped from his face and was transferred to hers.

"There's always something," Sherlock murmured, taking the end of the couch that Marlene had abandoned in favour of a dining room chair.

Furniture was placed haphazardly in the living room, like an awkward mix of animals put out to graze. You had your giraffes, the dining chairs, your elephants, the settees, and your gazelles, the end tables. _That makes me one hell of a zookeeper, _Marlene thought madly.

The three figures of Sherlock, John, and Marlene were silhouetted in the doorway.

"Well, thanks, you two. Mrs. Hudson talked about tea, but…I still have a lot of work to do." The obvious female shadow moved off to the side, quickly trailed by the shorter male, who was, in fact, about two inches shorter than she.

"Sherlock and I could manage." John offered. "It's a great idea-at least to talk to each other, to be on a neighborly basis."

Marlene flexed her jaw, glanced pointedly at the taller, dark-haired male. Out of everything in this new environment, he was the most confusing.

"I think you certainly know enough about me." She remarked cynically, with fragile venom. However fragile, it still stung and John winced. "Now, sorry, not much of a hostess." Within the space of about three seconds, the men found themselves in the small foyer.

Marlene slammed the door so hard that the address numbers rattled in protest. Nothing much else was heard except for a blaring horn and a dog barking in the distance. The two exchanged knowing looks and went into their flat.

"Marlene Tate. So familiar," John pooched out his lower lip, pouting a bit. Sherlock turned, giving him the omnipresent, choleric, semi-disgusted look that he wore whenever John made a "stupid" comment.

"It should be. A bestselling author of mystery novels-"

"That's ironic. Moves in next to the world's only consulting detective," John mused under his breath, snorting, silenced by a chilling glare from his flatmate. The "don't-interrupt-me-John-I'm-Thinking" glare.

"-whose work has been translated into several different languages. Best known for grisly crime scene depictions. A borderline disturbed mind, some psychiatrists have said." The detective finished, removing his suit jacket with a flourish and taking a seat in front of his laptop.

"You're one to talk on that," John retorted, picking up a newspaper and thumbing through it. Sherlock had been intimidating when he'd first met the detective, but this Marlene Tate was downright rude. Slamming the door in their faces. The nerve. John stared for a moment at the fleur-de-lis on the wallpaper, opened his mouth as if to speak, then promptly closed it again.

"John, you know how terribly bothersome it is when you think," Sherlock murmured. Watson snapped his head over to the laptop; Sherlock was already researching the woman. Researching. That, or his friend could be a real creep sometimes. Watson preferred to think the former. Wikipedia, facebook, twitter, any possible accounts. A few fan pages, featuring her glamour shot and a brief biography.

_Marlene Tate was born in London on October 29__th__, 1985. From childhood, she harbored a love of writing and a sense of adventure. _

"Dull." Sherlock frowned. "She had to have been hiding something, to dismiss us like that." He concluded. John simply shook his head in disdain.

"Sherlock. I know it was rude for her to do that, but perhaps the woman just wants a little peace? And we all know you don't get rude, ever." John commented sarcastically, to which Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust. The doctor just flipped a page of the newspaper, the crisp newsprint crackling under his fingertips. "Give her a small break."

Sherlock's frown became more deep-set. What would it be next, that John suggested he give Mycroft a break? He got out his gun, preparing to shoot the wall, per usual, when a small, sliding noise caught his attention. A little swipe. A _swoosh._

Strange. The room felt a little different too. Not terrible, like he'd been broken into, but oddly different. Like someone who didn't belong, a mismatching puzzle piece, was there, was watching.

A small piece of paper made a bright white rectangle on the wood floor near the gap between the door and the floor, neatly labeled: _Mr. Sherlock Holmes_. Sherlock carefully unfolded it.

_Mr. Holmes,_

_ The walls are not as thick as you assume them to be. Either that, or your voice is not as low as you think it is. I would suggest that you refrain from accusing me of things when we've only first met, or at least do it outdoors where I can't hear you. On a brighter note, I've got most of my dishes unpacked, so by all means, come over for tea, although there won't be much to talk about._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Marlene Tate_

"John, we're having tea." Sherlock stated, holding the note between his forefinger and thumb like a dead, diseased rat.

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**Tell me what you think! The R&R button is right there. You know you want toooooooo. **


	3. Chapter 3

"So lovely to have you here," Marlene said, reaching for her electric kettle, deliberately avoiding looking at the dark-haired gentleman in fear that she would go into a breakdown as soon as she did so. It was terrible; in college she could never talk to boys, if one tried to start a conversation with her or vice-versa, it was all over—a trip to the nurse and a call home. But no. He wouldn't know the extent of it, she wouldn't let him. She would make sure, she would be careful.

Marlene turned around; the men had taken to two dining chairs, Watson focusing on the gradient of the table, offhandedly commenting that he'd read one of her books a while ago. _Well, isn't that nice. _She thought dubiously.

"Oh? What'd you think?" Marlene found herself asking, pouring the hot water, feeling Sherlock's eyes dart deftly around the room. It was…unsettling, to say the least. In fact, it was almost violating.

"I liked the crime scene." John said with a smile, after some thought. _Probably didn't even read it, just looked it up online. _Marlene offered him the tea, and he took it eagerly. She patted him gently on the shoulder, and John saw Sherlock's contained smirk from the corner of his eye.

"Those are always fun to write. After all, it's not a good time unless the streets are rife with blood and entrails. And how would you like yours?" She seamlessly incorporated the phrase, and for once, the detective was caught off-guard, wrapped up in watching her interaction with John.

"Two sugar cubes." He replied. She nodded, dropping her eyes. That dizzy feeling was starting up, feeling like she was going to die, the vertigo that was like looking over the edge of a very tall building. _Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck._ The sugar was ultra-white, the red strip on the cream-coloured cup burnt her retinas. _Same shit, different day. Suck it up. _

Marlene grabbed two sugar cubes, plopped them into the tea, and handed it to Sherlock.

"Excuse me one moment," She said with practised restraint, admiring how evenly and effortlessly her words flowed forth. "I have to use the water closet." Marlene crossed the living room to the bathroom and closed the door. Her hands went immediately to grasp the sides of the old porcelain sink, she peeked at her reflection.

_I look like hell. Son of a bitch._ The panic attack was full-force now; she wanted to run, to just run away and never return, her breathing was frantic, her face flushed. Each object was spinning along with the world and leaving her behind. She vaguely felt herself turn the faucet. Cool water spouted out in a reliable stream and she splashed her face violently, turned it off, and collapsed onto the covered toilet for a moment. _Deep breaths. Deep breaths and then it'll be over. _She started the even one-two rhythm that had gotten her through nearly every attack (except for the bad ones, the ones that lasted for hours and hours), running her hands through her hair, dragging them down her warm cheeks. The light-headedness was leaving, that was good. Marlene approached the mirror once again, brushed her hair down with her fingers, then flushed the toilet and ran the water a bit. _Years of practice, _She thought, semi-disgusted with herself.

The writer carefully came back to the table, not letting her composure fail her. _At least act like you've got your shit together. Jesus. _

A light, almost sarcastic smile spread her lips, despite nearly breaking down in the bathroom.

"So, what exactly are your occupations?" She asked, sipped her tea, eyes darting back and forth, from one man to the other.

"I'm a doctor," John volunteered, to which Marlene's smile broadened a bit and she nodded. _Boring. _

"Nice." She replied. Then, picking at the hem of her shirt and dropping her eyes. "And you?" Her words came out more quietly and timid-sounding than she would have liked. _Damn it. _Marlene made eye contact, as if to atone for quieting down. Again, that faint smirk. Like he knew what she was thinking before she even thought of it. He had nice eyes, she decided, a light colour somewhere in the middle of green and blue that complemented his hair.

"Consulting detective." He responded, taking a gulp of tea. Marlene raised a questioning eyebrow. _Sounds pretentious. _

"Sounds interesting. What exactly, is it?" Her hand began to tremble slightly; she shoved it under the table in what she thought was a surreptitious move. _Fuck. _He noticed, although they never broke eye contact. John rolled his eyes, preparing for the lecture.

"When the police are in a complete state of confusion with a case, which seems to be their perpetual state, mind you, they call me to solve it." Marlene envied his offhand tone, but somehow admired it at the same time. Although, there was that revolting self-righteousness about him.

"So, you solve mysteries. And I write them." She muttered, the trembling becoming more and more apparent. _Deep breaths. _Marlene reminded herself, relaxing in her seat. The trembling was going, slowly but surely

"Miss Tate-" John began.

"Marlene," Marlene corrected automatically.

"Marlene, are you feeling alright? I mean, you could tell me if you aren't. I am a doctor."

_Damn. _Was it so bad that even John noticed? _Damn it all to hell._ She could tell that John wasn't exactly the observant type, so if he had noticed, then _of course_ Sherlock had noticed.

"Just rather chilly in here, don't you think?" She asked, lying through her teeth, trying to push it all down. Sherlock angled his head slightly, eyebrows lowering about a centimeter and the small sneer growing.

"No, not at all." He responded coolly; Marlene clenched her fists to stop the shaking.

"Must be me then," She said, and got up, collecting the dishes frantically. "Well, it was nice seeing you again. I'm sorry but I…I…" Marlene trailed off thoughtfully, the tremors momentarily stopping. _I'm in no position to be seen at the moment._ She finished in her mind. "…I really want to get my room unpacked before I go to bed. Lovely to have you over."

Holmes and Watson got up, started toward the door. She watched them leave, ready to just fall on the floor hyperventilating. Holmes turned around abruptly. _Act natural. _Her thoughts were urgent, and before he could take everything in she darted to the sink and began to wash the dishes.

"Marlene?" He asked. She was currently washing dishes and jumped, dropping a dish. It shattered on the tile into a few jagged pieces. She automatically swooped to the ground and picked them all up.

"What?" She asked crisply, snapping her head toward the source of the voice.

_Definitely a nervous condition then. Not from a childhood trauma, considering her posture, she doesn't slouch. Most likely created by emotional stresses. _

"Do you mind if I have your mobile phone number? I make it a point to keep in touch with my neighbours."

Marlene glanced up at him and cocked her head at approximately a forty-five degree angle, got up, and searched for a small piece of paper and a pen. Her hand had mercifully stopped shaking, and she scribbled the number onto the scrap of paper then handed it to him.

Their fingertips momentarily brushed as he took the paper and shoved it into his pocket.

"Nice meeting you," She said, pushing a chunk of hair behind her ear. It was the first time any nervousness presented itself in her tone, and he nodded cordially. _Does she find me attractive? Perhaps, considering the dilation of her pupils. _He thought, not sure if her admired her or despised her, then left.

_Did he really just ask for my number? _Marlene stared at the door for nearly a full minute before she got the broom from the corner to sweep up the remaining pieces of plate on the floor.

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**So? What'd ya think? c:**


	4. Chapter 4

Marlene awoke to her ringtone and a rare bar of pure sunshine streaming in from the window right into her eyes. The combination of sun and white bed sheets was hellish on the eyes, which first opened in shock and then narrowed to small grey lines before closing completely. Her hand reached blindly for the cell phone sitting on the nightstand.

A text. It was like staring into the goddamn sun.

"Who the hell would text me at seven a.m.?" She hissed, pulling the covers over her head. All of her friends knew that she wasn't a morning person at all. Everyone who had her number, except for—

Oh God.

Memories of the awkward tea flooded her brain as she dove further underneath the covers. _I'm such an idiot. _

_ "Nice meeting you,"_

_ What a ninny. _

She opened the text hesitantly; it wasn't from any of the usual contacts.

_**Congratulations! You have been selected to win a free—**_

Marlene began to laugh. Good then, he probably forgot all about it. This was just a little junk text. She deleted it before reading the entire thing, and closed her eyes once more, then

DING!

So it'd be this kind of day. She opened her eyes, sighed, and opened the new text.

_**There's been a double murder. Need inspiration?**_

_** -SH**_

"Is this a fucking joke?" She complained rather loudly, staring down accusatorily at her phone. A second text arrived and her phone shrieked; she jumped at the noise, throwing her phone and then catching it.

_**No. **_

_** -SH**_

_Damned thin walls. _Marlene silently cursed the makers of the building to an eternity of brimstone. And she had no clue what to even say. Was he offering to take her to a crime scene? Slowly, her fingers began to press the keys on the tiny keyboard.

_**Don't be ridiculous. I need my beauty sleep, after cleaning up that broken dish. **_

She grinned and pressed "send."

* * *

"I bet that's the only time anyone's ever told you that," John commented, looking over Sherlock's shoulder, who was staring at the text like it was some sort of exotic animal with multiple limbs. A deep-set sort of hurt wormed its way into the pit of John's stomach; that his friend would so willingly allow her to tag along. His gaze found the yellow smiley face graffiti on the wall and it rested there, a frown causing his face to lag, his posture to sag. Even though the hurt still made his stomach drop to his knees, he couldn't help but laugh at Sherlock's reaction.

"Not accustomed to rejection then?" John asked. Sherlock spun in his chair so quickly that he almost flew off of it, shooting his flatmate an annoyed glance. "And I'm presuming you got her phone number. Quite the lady killer these days. "

"I don't _like _her, John. I just wanted her to see an actual crime scene." Holmes responded quickly, stuffing his phone into his coat pocket. "Let's go then."

* * *

"Ah, the freak's here!" Sally Donovan called, standing outside the neon line of caution tape that stood out against the gray backdrop of the alleyway. Strange, usually the murders he was called to occurred indoors. Did they really call him for a backstreet mugging?

"Do you really think I have the time for this?" Sherlock groaned bitterly, lifting the tape for himself, walking under, and holding it for Watson. Striding over to the bodies, he managed to give Anderson a passing glare.

"A murder-suicide," The intolerable investigator judged, but Sherlock waved a hand to dismiss him. The sheer stupidity of the man sincerely surprised the consulting detective at times.

_Two men, twin brothers by the looks of it. Both shot in the head, one in the forehead, one in the temple._

"Well, someone worked very hard to make it look that way," Sherlock muttered. "Wrong!" He shouted, pointedly in Anderson's direction. "Of all the idiot assumptions I've heard you make over the years, this is the most absurd. So close your mouth lest anyone's IQ get damaged." Anderson marched off indignantly, cursing to himself. Sherlock crouched over one of the bodies, a well-dressed man in khakis. "It was a sniper. Look at the angles. Honestly. The shot near the temple is at least a centimeter too much upward. Now, if you would quit wasting my time with these things…" Holmes finished and walked off, stretching the tape upward for him and his friend once more, leaving the two dead men in pools of decaying red-brown blood.

"We'll need you in the pathology lab by six!" Lestrade called after the two exiting figures.

* * *

The groceries were paid for, the rent was paid for, and that was good enough for Marlene. If she could just stop these fucking attacks now—

Before she could move out of the way, Sherlock came rushing toward his own door, bashing into her. A few groceries were vomited out of their brown paper bags, but nothing major. Life was good for this short time. A minor pain, but nothing terrible.

"Oh, Marlene, terribly sorry," Sherlock said tonelessly, all the while John knowingly shaking his head, mouthing "He never pays attention," over the detective's shoulder. Sherlock stood motionlessly as Marlene put her bags down, until John nudged him.

"Help her," John whispered discreetly. Marlene was already hunched over, putting most of her shopping back in the paper bags, hearing his woolen coat rustle and raising her head. Her eyes met the detective's light, somewhat cold ones as he handed her a box of cereal, and she felt her heart rate rise.

"Thanks," She said calmly, getting up, patting her pockets in search of her key. "So, how was the crime scene?" It she could get it so that her hands didn't shake in his presence, the battle would be half-won. Holmes got up from his crouched position on the floor.

"Dull. I regret to inform you that the majority of police and crime scene investigators in London are idiots." Sherlock responded. "I'm almost glad that you decided not to accompany us." John stuffed his hands into his pockets and tried not to look as dejected as he felt. Marlene opened the door to her flat, then turned around, curiosity illuminating her eyes.

"Oh? I thought they were mainly confidential." She commented mildly.

_Perhaps she isn't as attracted to me as I thought she was. _Sherlock's mild smile faltered for a second. _She keeps making excuses—or it's because of her condition, and she's not sure how she'd handle it. _

"When I'm their only hope, they rarely object to me bringing some other people along. We'll say you're a journalist." He offered. "Well, another time then." Her eyes still contained that slight curious, albeit mischievous, spark when he mentioned the small lie he'd use; a genuine smile turned the corners of her mouth upward.

"Sure. Another time." She said, walking into her flat.

John looked to his shoes, trying not to notice the way his friend stared at the door after it closed. The Argus-eyed man who couldn't see what was right in front of him all the time, what cruel irony.

They went into their flat, Sherlock settled in the kitchen amongst the test tubes and beakers; where he felt the most at home, if he could even feel that way, John supposed; and the doctor sat in his armchair and read the paper. _That's always how it is, isn't it? _A page fluttered indignantly as he flipped it roughly. _In his own little world of science, so fascinating for him, and you're…you're looking at the bloody stock market. Some friend. _

"John, hand me my phone." Sherlock demanded, engrossed in his work, which looked like it consisted of mixing human blood with various types of poisons. Watson shuddered momentarily before going to retrieve the cellular, but stopped before he reached it. If Sherlock wanted to act immature, then fine. John would treat him like a child.

"You're missing a crucial word." God. It was like living with a Byronic pre-teen. Thank goodness that Sherlock wasn't as hormonally influenced. The detective rolled his eyes and scrunched up his nostrils in distaste.

"John, _please_ hand me the phone." He repeated, adding the word as if it pained him to do so. Watson shook his head and handed Sherlock the cellular.

A harsh knock on the door interrupted the exchange.

"Mr. Watson? Mr. Holmes?" A feminine, frantic voice called through the door. "It's Marlene."

_Her condition?_ Sherlock wondered, shot out of his seat, and raced to the door. The paneled monstrosity was opened with an urgency equivalent to that in her voice. Newly familiar gray eyes shone with a different kind of luster, this time, it was fear.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes, I…um…found these in my refrigerator." Marlene held up a bag (sickeningly, John noticed, like the ones mothers packed sandwiches for their children in) of severed human ears. Her eyes were wide and her face was white as a sheet, devoid of all colour.

"Oh, those. Those are mine." Impossibly, her eyes widened in horror when she saw his warm smile—one he put on to reassure her, to calm her down—but he quickly dropped it. "No, no! Not like that, I obtained them legally, from the morgue." Colour slowly leeched back into her cheeks. "I do experiments." He elaborated, for the first time in a while not sure of exactly what to say. He didn't want to frighten her, and he didn't want to seem like he was interested.

"…Oh," She panted. _Her respiration rate was excessive, her hands were trembling, the urgency that was in her voice. Hair is mussed, clothes askew…she had a panic attack. _He concluded, smirking that he could figure her out so easily. Read like a book. And then, he realised, the smirk leaving little by little: _And I inadvertently caused it…and she knows._

"I apologize profusely, Miss Tate, please come in, I think John can make you tea or coffee." He observed her for a moment, watched her run an anxious hand through her hair, the rise and fall of her chest becoming less and less apparent. _Good God. _

"No, no. I'll be fine." She said, pressing her lips together into a small "o" and blowing out a long stream of air.

"I insist," He said, looking straight at her. Marlene laughed nervously, peeked into the flat at an angry-looking John reading the paper once more.

"Only if it's fine with John."

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**Thanks so much to all my reviewers and subscribers! It means so much to me. **


	5. Chapter 5

Marlene plopped down on the sofa and leaned into it. Sherlock's body tensed as he saw this; that was _his _couch, but she did just have a panic attack, exceptions could be made. He went back to experimenting, feeling her curious gaze rest on him.

_He'll invite me in and not talk? Hm. _

"Are you sure you're fine, Marlene?" John asked. Sherlock was right, she had definitely been hiding something, but it didn't seem all that sinister. She carefully avoided the question, picking at the hem of her top.

"Yes. I just ran over here is all…I'm not exactly fit, as you see." Another lie. She'd taken her sweet time coming over and had a sense that they both knew it. _I can see that this will be a lasting, open friendship._ Her mind chimed in sarcastically.

"Preposterous." Sherlock finally said, and Marlene vaguely looked around the room before focusing in on him. The flat was an organised mess, and in the kitchen was set up like a mad scientist's laboratory-beakers, test tubes, and books laid everywhere, on the coffee table, the end tables. A small television was on the far wall, and a few armchairs.

"What?" She finally asked, her voice small, peepy and terrified, regarding the slender man perched on the stool with some apprehension.

"If we are neighbours it is not the best idea to lie, especially about something so serious. You aren't that fit, but you're perfectly physically capable of running less than two meters without getting winded. I know you have a nervous condition; I told you on the day you moved in."

_"…And you have a nervous condition." _

Fuckity-fuck.

How could she have let on so easily? Marlene felt that dying feel again, like her soul getting drawn out through her eyes, like being a balloon that had been released from its tether. _No!_ Her hand grasped the arm of the sofa until her knuckles were white, and the balloon was getting tethered once more, her feet touched down on earth again.

"Your posture said everything," Sherlock continued, and opened his mouth to say more when John shook his head "no" at him. The detective's brow twisted as he looked over at Marlene, her head buried in her hands. Was she going to cry? He didn't think he could drive her to that, but she _was _so peculiar, women in general were peculiar…

"I'm sorry," John began, disapproving. "He's not very socially adept-"

"No," Marlene countered. "He _is _very adept. Got me pegged." Sherlock snuck a peep. No tears, but her voice sounded thick, almost as if they threatened to spill over. _Overly sensitive, _He judged, clearing his throat quietly, and went back to the blood cell samples.

Silence rang in the flat for what seemed like ages.

"I've got to be at the morgue by six. Would you care to join us?" Sherlock asked, as if nothing had happened. John stared at the two in disbelief, they were just going to avoid this entire thing, erase it from their memories?

"Sure." She replied, striving for the same nonchalance he displayed, but John sensed the hurt in her voice. God. It was like the man had no boundaries sometimes. The consulting detective rose and put on his woolen overcoat.

* * *

A demure, clean place. Exactly what Sherlock needed. Somewhere that he could think in peace and be pleasantly alone, excepting that woman Molly who relentlessly chased him, but he became an expert at underhandedly rejecting women. That was Molly's problem, really; she saw but did not _observe_. She saw him and thought of him in a purely materialistic manner, but did not observe how he acted toward her; how his actions, his body language, dictated that he was not interested. Perhaps bringing Marlene would send some sort of message, that he preferred—

No. _Because I don't care for either of them. _He reminded himself.

The cab ride was inconvenient and odd with Marlene squished between the two men, practically half-sitting on each lap, during which the cab driver giving the three suggestive winks and glances until he heard where they were going. His neighbor had smiled wickedly at the prospect of telling a white lie to the department—that she was a journalist—and called it "fighting the system."

"That's it." She'd snickered, grabbing her jacket along with a notebook and pen, a manila file folder full of blank papers. "Don't let 'The Man' keep you down." Sherlock managed to hide a smile as she locked her flat and rushed down the stairs. At least it seemed more open between the three of them now that she knew they knew; she sat through John's near half-hour lecture about hiding something so serious, all she did during it was nod and put her head down sullenly.

And now, getting out into the downpour that just started, he opened the cab door for her and John.

"Thanks," She said with a grin as she passed, going toward the awning that hung over the side of the imposing concrete edifice. He followed, collar turned up against the rain, and they entered. Caring about others was truly a disadvantage, he just ended up soaked and cold, however, both Watson and Tate were too, so he wasn't alone in his misery.

"I look like a drowned rat," Marlene muttered, wringing out the short sections of her hair on the tile floor. "Oh well. The press _must_ prevail." Watson laughed, gaining a few glares from the staff, then remembered where he was. Laughing in a morgue. His mother would've had his head. Holmes was without reply, but the very slight, sly smile made Marlene cheer internally and then wonder why she did so.

"Well, here's your twins," A woman sporting a lab coat and sandy hair said to Sherlock, staring up at him with disturbing adoration, just short of swooning at his feet. Somehow, this pathologist (nametag: Molly Hooper) looked familiar to Marlene; shortly it all came swimming back at once. Molly Hooper, the girl a few years above her, had gotten an award for biology and a full scholarship too…

_I've changed since college, I got my hair cut and lost about twenty to thirty pounds. Fucking anxiety. She won't recognize me._ Marlene assured herself, grasping her notebook, trying not to come undone. Nearly three times in a day. Well, it was less than how frequent they had been.

_Unless she's read any of your books, _Her rational side said, causing her to cringe. She wanted to go home, wrap herself in every blanket she owned, and avoid everything.

"Who's this?" The question was barked almost accusatorily and Marlene almost blew her cover by laughing, and immediately stuck out her hand before she could even get the all too familiar dizzy sensation.

"Eva Downs, reporter for the Times." Marlene said, shaking the woman's hand and feeling hatred seep through the contact. So Molly fancied Sherlock…Marlene would've pulled a Watson and burst into laughter if there weren't two dead bodies on the steel tables only a few paces away. The room was macabre yet professional, she found the time to take everything in while Molly sized her up. Pristine cabinets lined the ceiling on one side, while steel tables on rollers were lined up neatly on the floor of the other side. Only two were currently in use, each with a white-shrouded corpse lying on top. Beyond the tables were the metal cabinets that she'd written about so many times before, but seeing them in reality gave her a final sense of terror whenever she'd visited hospital morgues. Each heavy door had a large handle. _As if they're afraid the dead will just decide to crawl out on their own. _A bright red exit sign glowered from the other end of the long room, which was painted a ghastly shade of blue slate.

"I see." Molly said, not quite glaring at her. "Your press card?" Marlene contorted her face into what her mother called the "Daddy-please?" face, making her eyes large and innocent.

"I just got hired…they put me on obit duty…didn't give me a card yet…do you think you could make a tiny exception, just this once? I'll be fired if I don't get this." The writer said, feigning helplessness, trying her damnedest to be persuasive.

"Fine." Molly huffed, and Marlene guessed that she was only making this exception because Sherlock was involved. The pathologist tore the sheet off of the two faces. Identical, except for the wounds. Marlene opened her notebook and began to pretend to write, looking thoughtfully at the corpses from time to time. Sherlock spewed a list of facts about them, which she eagerly "wrote" down in a frenzy.

"Brilliant," She whispered.

Watson remained quiet and merely looked on, retaining the mixed feelings about his flatmate and their neighbor. There was something there between them, something that he wasn't privy to, frustratingly, and that something was a mutual respect. He felt almost certain that Sherlock hadn't ever really respected him, or anyone for that matter; perhaps Irene Adler. However, he seemed to hold Marlene in good standing. _Well, a higher standing than I'm in. _Watson thought sourly. Probably the quick thinking skills she possessed. For a moment he was afraid that she would go into an attack meeting Molly (who'd suddenly left after meeting her, how odd) , but she managed to overcome it, or at least put it off until later—

"Yes, do you have any recently hired reporters named Eva Downs?" Molly was at her station, speaking lowly into the phone, breaking John out of his thought-induced trance. He saw Marlene look over at Molly, staring at her like a wild horse before it meant to run, consistently tapping Sherlock on the shoulder, mindlessly, it was like Morse code; Marlene was running on adrenaline and fear.

"Ah, that's what I thought. Thanks." Molly grinned into the receiver; however, the pleasant expression melted into a grimace once she put it down.

"What?!" Sherlock finally roared at Marlene as Molly rounded the corner into the morgue.

"There is no Eva Downs working for the Times," Molly informed him triumphantly, then sneered toward Marlene. "What's going on here? Tate, right? Marlene! From school! And still getting yourself into trouble, I see. I've read most of your books." She remarked proudly, Tate let her breath go in a relieving whoosh, her breaths slowing. Molly's smile turned into a scowl. "But that won't be enough to get you out of this."

"Then what will?" Sherlock asked sharply, finally casting an eye toward Molly, who bit her lip and sighed.

"I just don't want to lose my job…but if you really want this to be off the record…" Molly began.

"It already is, for God's sake, they're having me solve it." Holmes snapped, pulling the sheet brusquely over one man's head.

"I mean 'off' off-record," Molly glanced around the room, went across the table from Sherlock, and leaned over the corpse, getting so close that she could have kissed him. "Then you and I should have dinner." She squeaked.

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**Thanks everyone! You know what to do. c;**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N Hi all! Thanks for all the lovely reviews and follows. So, if anyone has any questions about setting, I've set this in a period of time elapsed between The Hounds of Baskerville and The Reichenbach Fall. c: **

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"I believe that one of Miss Tate's signed books will suffice." Sherlock said, his voice becoming harsh, the words as short and clipped as the blond woman's hair. Molly's face fell; she couldn't help but feel a pang of envy toward her former schoolmate, and turned away from the man who'd been the object of her affections for a few years. The man who'd kissed her on the corner of the mouth, for God's sake. _He must have felt right guilty. _Molly let out a long breath she wasn't aware of holding, and went back to her station.

Marlene felt a deep sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she ascended the stairs to her flat, trailed by her two neighbours. The key turned easily in the lock; the door creaked ominously as it opened. The place looked surreal, unlike her previous flat, but she wasn't sure if that was just because of the newness of the place, her imagination, or something menacing. Everything seemed to be in its place, besides a few stray cardboard boxes, but the air was held in a pregnant pause, the calm before a storm, something was _waiting. _ No, she hadn't been broken into, everything was where she'd left it-

A gun shot rang out. Her window shattered.

Marlene dove behind the couch, her ribs making contact with the wood floor. She crouched, cowering, covering her head as two more bullets rushed through-one shattered the other pane and the other hit a vase, which exploded just over her head. It was a game of waiting, waiting for the firing to cease, waiting for the adrenaline to pan out. That image of the heavy metal doors in the morgue popped into her mind, that final place.

"Marlene?!" Sherlock yelled over the gunfire, pounding at the door. He'd break it down if he had to. She was an innocent woman; she'd known him for not even three days. She didn't deserve death.

"DON'T!" She shrieked, eyes wide and terrified, her knees pulled up to her chest as she cowered behind the sofa in soaked clothing, shivering both out of fear and coldness. A pronounced "click" reverberated in the narrow alleyways, and Marlene shut her eyes. _Out of rounds. _The putrid fear had gone down, there wasn't a sick feeling anymore, just hollow anger, almost as always after an attack. A rough voice strung a creative line of profanities that drifted even above her window and to the clouds above, then an abrupt end to the cursing and the sound of loping feet slapping against the pavement. Five minutes elapsed. Sherlock was still banging on the door, screaming for her to come out, to at least say something. She gingerly rose, hesitantly picked her way through the shards of glass and her décor on the floor, and opened the door. Sherlock's fist narrowly missed her nose.

"Yes?" She asked after flinching, gasping for air. The adrenaline rose like a thermometer on a hot day, and the bulb was breaking; the once-obedient dog that she thought was chained up slipped its collar and ran; the balloon started to float recklessly away. There was absolutely nothing she could do at all, and in between creating an alias and getting shot at and nearly punched in the nose, she found her hands shaking rapidly as she stared up at the detective.

"I-I…shouldn't…be…seen…like…this." She managed in between gasps of air that all seemed so futile. All of the events of the day had filled her emotionally to the brim, and now everything was spilling over too fast for her to handle; a greedy schoolchild who overindulged and then vomited.

"Marlene, sit." It wasn't a question, it was a command. Usually she would've turned her back on a man who talked to her like she was a dog, but this time it was welcomed. It was order. He pulled her into 221B, she grasped his arm like a drunken woman muddling her way out of a bar and finally collapsed into John's armchair. Leaning over, hands on her thighs, she finally caught her breath.

"I'm sorry." She said, hands going to her hair, and gripping it, pulling it a bit, not hard, but gently, a little stress relieving habit she had. "I'm sorry." Her hands were still shaking violently, and when she bothered to look up she saw that Sherlock had left the room without giving any reason as to why or where he was going.

_You. Are. Ridiculous. _She told herself, the balloon soaring sky high now; the overtly unnatural sensation of being simultaneously inside and outside of her body, her spirit was having trouble deciding whether it wanted to stay or go and therefore kept one foot in and the other out. John stumbled into the flat from downstairs.

"Sherlock, I didn't get a chance to see the man," He informed the room upon bursting in. Marlene's face fell into her cupped hands. "Marlene? It'll be alright." She shook her head frantically, negating his statement. John went over cautiously, patted her on the shoulder.

"John, I don't think you understand the magnitude of the situation." Her words came out in a disturbing, toneless voice, devoid of any inflection, akin to a computer. Her face was haggard, dark circles under her eyes, and she was sallow-skinned, eyes lacking the characteristic friendliness. "I was just shot at for reasons unbeknownst to me…look; I've been trying to hold this back all day. It's been hellish."

"What's the longest it's taken you to calm down in these types of situations?" He asked, face etched with doctoral concern, enough so that he could temporarily ignore her commenting on his ignorance. She was minutely rocking back and forth in the chair, then abruptly stopped, raked a nervous hand through her hair. A few strands floated down and settled on the afghan.

"F-four hours." She replied, in the same haunting tone. John could only raise his eyebrows, he hadn't much experience with psychological work, but God, this woman needed it. _Either that or a good shag,_ He thought, then immediately mentally slapped himself on the wrist. This was serious.

"Do you take medication?"

"No." A chill traced its fingers down John's spine; even though her voice had taken on that lack of inflection, there was a bit of a lilt to it that made it almost uncannily resemble Sherlock's "John-don't-be-an-idiot" tone. The doctor pulled up the other chair and simply sat next to her, all he could do was try to calm her down, and rested his hands on her arm.

"Marlene, Marlene, it'll be fine. Sherlock will work it out."

At the mention of that her head went into her hands again. _Cue the uncontrollable sobbing_, A jaded voice called from in Marlene's mind, but the familiar hiccups wouldn't come out. Nothing would. Just shaking hands and a mouth unwilling to vocalize.

Marlene's flat was in shambles; it was nearly impossible to deduce anything from Sherlock's surroundings as most of the decorations and wall hangings were currently smashed and scattered on the floor. He looked around, trying not to be nosy, but he couldn't help it, it was his nature to observe. There were at least a few details he could pick out as he carefully hopped his way through the broken glass on the floor.

The shopping left on the table consisted of a few chicken breasts, some frozen dinners, eggs, pasta, granola bars, ramen noodles. The staples of the bachelorette diet. No pictures of any boyfriend or even friends either, no shreds of them in the fragmented glass or even stray unharmed ones. Her laptop had survived the shooting and sat charging on the coffee table, the television was switched onto the evening news. _So she came into the flat, barely even took off her coat, and switched on the television. _Moving on through the wreckage, her bathroom contained only the essentials: soap, some generic shampoo and conditioner, a razor, toothbrush and toothpaste. A swift hand clad in a leather glove opened the medicine chest in one quick, gliding motion. Bandages, bacitracin, ibuprofen, aspirin, cold medicine, dental floss, cough drops. _No medication; her disorder might not warrant it by some physician's standards. That, or nothing worked. _He concluded, walking down a short corridor to her bedroom. A tall chest of drawers sat opposite a bed_._ It was filled with clothes, as was the closet. He quickly grabbed anything he could spot and enough of it for at least three days- jumpers, jeans, shirts, cardigans. He reached to the top drawer with some reluctance. _Obviously where she keeps her lingerie. _He opened it with reverent curiosity. Basic white and gray boy shorts and brassieres. _Definitely no boyfriend then. _Rotating his position after shoving the clothes into a grocery bag, his observant eyes were drawn to the rest of the room. Folded on top of a pillow were her sweat pants and a vest shirt; she probably used them as pyjamas, and he managed to squeeze them into the bag as well. She had a queen sized bed on the north wall; however, only one side was mussed, the other still looked freshly made. Poe and Lovecraft sat on the bookshelf beside the bed, along with her iPod. _Explains the penchant for the macabre. _He thought, smirking, grabbing her iPod and scrolling through it. Jazz, mostly instrumental bossa novas, although some vocals, loads of American torch songs. He thoughtfully placed it in the bag and then left, not feeling the usual smug and satisfied at all about his deductions. An eerie, cloying sensation was overtaking his brain; it was _perturbing_. Looking through her flat had been perturbing. There was the exterior layer, and then there was _Marlene,_ there were the people he could deduce in one try and there were the people that it took a few times to figure out. He was unsure of which category she fell into; she had a whole other layer underneath one that sort of broke through when she didn't have her attacks, one that had such, such…

_Potential to do whatever she wishes, attacks or not. _The thought was involuntary, and for a second he wondered if everyone had this layer, and he had just never seen through to it until now. That potential begged, no, screamed, for a mentor, and everything in her flat accentuated her aloneness, down to the tiniest details. Perhaps it wasn't such an extensive condition; perhaps she was just accustomed to the loneliness, a recluse.

Marlene tracked the detective with her eyes as he entered the flat, trying to keep herself collected, a damn difficult task considering that the man who currently drove her the edge was now holding about one-third of her wardrobe in a shopping bag. He raised one inquisitive brow, pupils roving from John, who was still sitting in front of the author, making one last-ditch effort to calm her, to Marlene.

"You'll be staying over here. At least until you get your windows replaced." Sherlock placed the brown bag next to John's armchair, taking off his overcoat and hanging it on a hook near the door.

"Look, I'm fine. You really don't need to—" She started, looking down at bloody, bitten fingernails.

"Stop being an idiot." Holmes stated, as if he was tired of saying this particular phrase. "And John, you could take your hands off her, her respiration rate has slowed significantly. You're a doctor, you should know better than I do." John sheepishly looked away from Marlene, removing his hands and folding them in his lap. Sherlock ventured to his bedroom wordlessly. Watching him in his natural habitat was puzzling; he moved deliberately and acted with reason, he just gave no reason as to what he was doing at the time, as if his mind worked just a tick faster than his mouth could.

"You're wrong, you know."

Marlene looked up sharply. It was John, staring intently down his hands. John, his expression solemn.

"What?" The look on John's face made shocked and fascinated her at the same time, the usually amiable man had become jaded in not even five seconds. The word came out in a breath that tickled her lower lip.

"I know all about getting shot at. Afghanistan." He replied, throwing a pair of dog tags to her. She caught them easily, inspected them. _John Watson_. It was him. All at once, Marlene felt like a complete fool. It wasn't the first time in her life she'd felt this, but definitely one of the worst. _You idiot. You bloody idiot. You should've known. That stance, that way he turns his head at each sound. A military man. _

"Thank you, John." Was all she could bring herself to say, feeling bottomed-out and frightfully hollower than before, face hotter than her entire body, as always with the end of the attacks. John refused to look at her, but sort of tipped his head in regard to her gratitude. She extended her arm, put the tags in his outstretched hand.

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	7. Chapter 7

Marlene went to the bathroom to dress for bed, taking the large brown grocery bag with her. Sherlock must've collected her things; he'd included her iPod, which sometimes helped her to get to sleep after stressful days. _Thoughtful. _He'd also managed to shove about two weeks' worth of clothes in the bag without ripping it; she dug through the contents to find her pyjamas, and pulled out a pair of underpants. _So he's seen my knickers,_ She concluded, folding them back up, her cheeks burning. _And when I thought it couldn't get any worse with him…_

The fact that he'd gone to her flat after such a dangerous even caused a myriad of emotions to stir in her mind-concern mostly; she had sat with John wondering if she was going to hear just one last gunshot for ages, biting her nails until they bled. But something else had nipped at the back of her mind: the certain way his face lit up when he rushed in. There _were_ adrenaline addicts in the world; he could very well be one of them. _And maybe not just adrenaline, either. _She thought, looking at her own reflection, at the little tarnished crescents under her eyes. Maybe there was, or had been, at least, some other vice. He was rather thin, never rolled up his sleeves around her, and according to Mrs. Hudson, there were some times when he acted outright insane. She didn't think it could be cocaine, constant sniffing wasn't one of his habits, but maybe something else. Right now her suspicions led her to believe it was heroin, but it could've been morphine, or, if she wanted to go old-school: laudanum.

Marlene shook her head abruptly, abandoning the thoughts, found she had gotten changed during the trance, and went out to the living room again; closer, grounded observation revealed a very eldritch taste in décor: a human skull on the mantle, a cow skull/light combination above a small workspace. Morbid and aloof, just like their owner. She took a seat in a gray leather armchair, tucking stocking-feet underneath herself. Sherlock paused from his experimentation in the kitchen at the strangely foreign sound of someone else plopping down in his chair, all the night and end-of-day ritual sounds he'd become familiar with since John moved in were now unfamiliar and new. There was a distinctly feminine note to what she did, although he didn't classify her as the particularly girly type, maybe it was simply that a woman was in his flat, carrying on with what seemed to be a life interrupted. Marlene saw him peer up from his microscope and send her a small, petty glare. _Must be his seat, _She thought, but defiantly remained in the chair, almost wanting to glare back, but not quite daring to. He'd opened up his home for her, she would act grateful. John must've gone to his room; good. It'd be nice not to deal with that in front of Sherlock, although it'd plague her to no end, keep her up if she let it. In the end, Marlene decided to postpone the apology until the morning, even if it did mean sacrificing a few hours of sleep, simply because of her night clothes. _What kind of message would that send, begging for his forgiveness in your pyjamas while you're in his room?_ She wondered, nose crinkling cynically.

A few moments later, she began to regret not apologizing either more profusely or in the present a second time, just because the quiet began to irritate her endlessly. Out of habit, she checked a clock. About midnight.

"Are you going to bed soon?" The detective's distinct voice asked from the kitchen. Marlene jumped in her seat, whipped around to look at him.

"Probably." She replied listlessly, her hands which had frozen into balled up fists on her knees swinging down and now hanging limply at her sides. A gesture of relief.

_Comes from the 'fight or flight' instinct, _Sherlock mused, peeking back into the microscope, scribbling on a few papers. The gentle scratch of the pen on paper soother her, he could tell; she relaxed back into the chair, leaning her head on the back of it and staring up at the ceiling.

"Are you?" Her voice was timid and small as she asked the question; Sherlock actually paused his work to return her questioning but not totally unfriendly stare. He felt his mouth begin to twinge upward at one corner.

"I rarely sleep; however, if you feel that you must, there is a bedroom just through that door." He responded, once again looking back into the microscope.

"The sofa will suffice." She shot back. He felt her glare settle onto him like a thin, gauzy shroud.

"Oh please," He retorted, not even bothering to make eye contact. "Don't flatter yourself." The glare intensified as Marlene rose from his chair like it'd been poisonous. So she knew it was his, probably from that little glare he'd given her. _Perhaps a mite more vigilant than I'd taken her for._ _She moves carefully, but with purpose. _He noted, stashing away all the observations and storing them like a squirrel with acorns. _Her jaw is strained; flexing-she's grinding her teeth in anger. Probably because her coupons were rejected at the Tesco today._ The receipt and crumpled coupons had been strewn all over the table with her shopping.

Marlene pulled the throw pillows into a small pile, grabbed a knitted blanket off of what must've been John's chair, threw herself down on the sofa and dramatically tore the blanket over her body. It was war now, he'd insulted her and she always took insults personally. Even though he'd been gracious enough to let her stay with him, she would ensure that the week would be hell. Marlene closed her eyes, turned off a lamp on an end table, and succumbed to sleep.

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There were so many little details that he saw, so many little things that she hid throughout the day. To be that careful, to put that mask on and maintain it must have been exhausting, hence why she was in such a hurry to sleep.

It'd been nearly an hour since she first retired, and he noted that during sleep, her face seemed more natural, instead of a plastered-on smile there was a strained frown of pained worry. A woman overwhelmed by anxiety, forced to put up this façade and pretend she was fine as not to scare or irritate others.

How wonderfully complex.

It would be fun, perhaps even a challenge, to deduce that other layer, to decode the hows and whys.

There was that anxious frown, and she tossed and turned, however, one thing remained fixed: her arms always reached out in front of her, reaching for something unattainable, for something just out of her range—

_Perfection. That is what she aims for and that is what irritates her; with her condition it has always remained out of her grasp. The desire to be rid of it, or even the desire for companionship…_

For a moment, Sherlock understood her perfectly, it had been entirely different before John moved in. At the time, John was the only link between Sherlock and his own sanity. John, who cleaned up after him, tolerated his behavior…

The thought was brushed off, put into storage.

Marlene stirred once again, muttered something like "Cold." Her hand reached out, wriggling grotesquely in search of the nearest piece of comfortable feeling fabric. Which happened to be his dressing gown. His lips fell into a frown. He wouldn't just go and take it from her, John would yell at him. Somehow, all his negative actions got around to the ex-army doctor.

Fine then. All the experiments were done and Sherlock felt fatigue setting right into his bones. There would have been times when he would fix this, when he wouldn't need to do something as dull as sleep, when he wouldn't eat or sleep for days, he'd just go out into the street, punch in the dealer's familiar numbers, and seconds later a cab would arrive bearing the drugs disguised as groceries. But not anymore. If he ever saw that piteous-and worst of all, contemptuous-look from his brother ever again, he'd be damned. And of course, there was what it would do to John…

He was letting his mind run on and on, like a dog tied to its post, testing out the extent of its rope. Finally, it reached the end and choked itself to death. Sherlock went to his bedroom soundlessly.

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**c: Thanks everyone. **


	8. Chapter 8

It had been years since John smelled eggs cooking in the morning, since he woke whenever he wanted to. And these things surged back all at once, hitting that central point of nostalgia in his mind which summoned his childhood; the carefree time when there was little to worry about except finishing his chores and remembering to do his homework. Mixed aromas of both tea and coffee wafted into his bedroom, extending beckoning fingers toward his nose; he got up and quickly dressed, ambling to the main room of the flat. Sherlock wasn't cooking, that was for sure. Never mind the fact that the man rarely cooked, when he did, it was a complete disaster and resulted in small explosions. The most complicated thing Sherlock could make was toast. _But brilliant with chemistry. Go figure. _John thought, rolling his eyes at the very memory of it. Sherlock hated doing things he wasn't good at, and cooking was one of them. Consequently, he labeled it asinine and dull.

Marlene, John could see, was busying herself going through the motions of making breakfast out in the kitchenette; for once, it seemed Sherlock had cleaned up after himself, all the lab apparatus was curiously absent from the table. Something was so amiss about this picture…then he realised. She was wearing a navy-blue dressing gown that billowed out around her every few steps she took from the sink to the stove to the refrigerator. It looked so familiar, oddly endearing, but he just couldn't place it. John finally pulled a chair out from the table and sighed, plunking down into the seat. Really, Marlene wasn't a terrible person; she just tried so hard, and it smelled like she was a good cook and one hell of a writer, considering the reviews he'd seen online. The atmosphere of the kitchen was warm and inviting, but thinly-veiled underneath that exterior was a stale and touchy feel, an unwanted remnant of the intense conversation that took place the night before. Could this have been her way of apologizing? Because if so, he'd be happy to keep her around. The novelist turned, the dressing gown flying out like dancer's skirts, and put the tea and coffee tray out on the table wordlessly. She knew she'd have to apologize, and that confrontation was becoming inevitable she was putting it off. Hence the cooking. _Just occupy yourself and you won't have these fits. _Her mother's advice, it was how she got into writing. What a crock of shit. It was probably best to do it and get it out of the way before Sherlock rose and began to drive her insane in that terribly irritating and pretentious yet highly attractive manner.

"John?" She asked, despising the way her voice betrayed her, becoming high and girlish in timbre. He looked from her, to the morning newspaper, and back again. She stood for a moment, thinking of what to say, averting her eyes, put a cup of tea on the table. Finally, the newspaper was put down. She took that as a cue to continue, and cleared her throat.

"I'm sorry. Really sorry, I mean, about what I said. It was wrong, out of line."

Her apology hung in the air as Watson seemed to regard it. Marlene, sick with suspense, quickly went back to her cooking, banging a few pans to make up for the lack of spoken words.

"It's alright," He finally said. "You really couldn't have known." A smile formed on his mouth as he again noted her attire; it was so blatant now. He could never contain his expressions, especially in front of women, but the military had assisted in ridding him of that habit. But Marlene wearing Sherlock's dressing gown? It was one thing when Irene wore it, but now…now…

_Could they have really—?_

"No. It was outright awful." She corrected gently, spooning eggs onto a plate and handing it to him. That was one thing she took comfort in here at the Holmes residence: none of the china or flatware matched. It was home instantaneously. "I hope you can forgive me."

"I forgive you. On one condition." John said, sly and holding in laughter; she could tell. _Can't you just go one day, one __**FUCKING **__day, Marlene, without fucking up and making an arse of yourself?_ Her former smile now drooped into a worried frown.

"What's that?"

"Why are you wearing Sherlock's dressing gown?"

Something like revulsion rose in Marlene's stomach, she felt heat rise to her cheeks, staring blankly beyond John. A million thoughts raced through her mind at the moment, none of them reassuring, and the false sense of comfort was peeled away.

"What do you mean?" She asked, searching to say something, anything, to explain her way out of it. "I fell asleep on the sofa and when I woke up I had it on." It was the truth, at least, but it made her uneasy. She'd figured it was just a spare. Had he covered her during the night? The look on John's face revealed the same notion running through his mind, they exchanged a disbelieving stare for at least two minutes before Sherlock came strutting out, sporting only a bed sheet, and surveyed the room before sitting down.

"Where is my lab?" he demanded. John could only sigh. Another day where the man woke up on the wrong side of the bed, where it was impossible for him to appreciate anything or anyone. Marlene, most likely melting with mortification, had turned around and busied herself getting a plate from the cabinet. Acting as if she hadn't heard the question at all. So _she_ had been behind it. Sherlock sent a scathing look to John as if to say "do you even believe this?" One thing he absolutely hated was being ignored; his older brother had done it to him throughout the course of his childhood. The novelist simply put a plate of eggs in front of him wordlessly, stood by, waiting for a response. He sniffed them carefully.

John once again couldn't believe the rudeness.

No traces of cyanide, arsenic, or even household cleaners, but he wouldn't take the chance.

"I'm not hungry." He pouted, folding his arms and sulking. Marlene shucked the dressing gown suddenly and violently off of her body and threw it at him, despising the way he effortlessly caught it.

"Yes you are." She replied flatly, ignoring the temptation to add _"And stop being such a shit"_ to the end of the sentence, but instead: "You haven't touched a thing since yesterday."

Was that disdain he detected? Sherlock unfolded his arms, carefully staring at the woman, who was now looking at the window, telling that she was rather hurt, and finding it like breaking the wings of an already injured dove. The scratch of the plate against the table drew her attention; he was eating.

John's eyes flicked from one party to the other as they continued in the strange and wordless tete-a-tete. It was like watching a fencing competition, except no one really won, and the other ended up wounded and upset until the other competitor complied.

"Why would you come out in only a sheet?" John asked finally, to crack the pane of unsettling silence. This earned a contemptuous look from Sherlock, aimed straight at him, then to the dressing gown which was now crumpled on the floor beside his chair.

"Someone had my dressing gown." He remarked in between bites, then pushed away the empty plate. "Someone took it last night since they were cold."

Marlene felt a blush creep up to her cheeks and erupt. Relieving and disappointing simultaneously; Sherlock hadn't covered her with it. She took his plate, leaned on the edge of the sink and turned on the water, half-smiling.

"Sorry." She managed, embarrassed, hanging her head.

"It's fine," Sherlock replied in a stuffy way that suggested it wasn't, that suggested she was in all ways repellant to him. She stood for a moment, aloof and unsure of why he was acting so differently than he had been before, and went back to washing the dishes, glad that she could look out the window instead of at him as he said this.

John merely cocked his head at the two; she'd told him that he was hungry and he ate, that was just an accomplishment within itself. Rather strange too, but he'd take it; it beat stealthily setting up small snacks around the flat for him to eat (which he never did anyway and then the food would rot).

Marlene clenched her teeth down on her lower lip as she washed the dishes, so hard that it was drawing blood, blandly feeling the warm water run over her hands. She wouldn't let the tears roll down her cheeks, no matter how much she wanted to or how much they wanted to escape her eyes. He'd come out in just a sheet-did he usually sleep nude? And he offered his bed to her too. It was much easier to speculate than to think about why he had been so cold. She recoiled at nothing, narrowly missing dropping a tea cup, and could feel Sherlock's narrowed eyes drive into the back of her head like white-hot pins. What a predicament. Upon meeting him, now that she thought back to it, absent-mindedly shaking out a dish towel and buffing a dish, she regarded him as attractive: high cheekbones, dark hair, light blue eyes. Lovely bone structure, but so _thin_-partially because of former addictions and partially because of how he was built.

_But what an antagonistic personality. _She said in thought, more to keep herself from going into an attack than anything else. The sudden realisation that he was attractive was a mental equivalent to beating her about the head and shoulders with a mallet: It made her head ache and consequently left her afraid. _Afraid of what? _Her mocking, cynical thoughts always pointed out her flaws. _Oh, he's attractive, that's __**definitely**__ an aspect to fear him for._

The dishes were soon finished, she spun primly on her heel to collect her clothing to change, but was faced with Sherlock instead of the empty space she'd envisioned, nearly colliding with him.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack," She said after the shock of seeing him so close. Her voice cracked mid-sentence, and her hands balled up into scared, protective fists. She let a pent-up breath escape in a long exhalation.

"You made breakfast today, a reconciliation of sorts? What happened between you and John?" He wondered aloud, seemingly amused, feeling her cool, light breath on his neck. Marlene was suddenly under a microscope, avoiding the intent, scornful gaze, and also his body, radiating warmth from under the sheet. She clenched and unclenched her fists, summoning up the courage to say what was on her mind, finally looking him straight in the eye when she had to, realising that in a very different situation, they would've looked like lovers about to kiss.

"None of your business." The primary-school comeback. She was proud of herself, looking him straight in the eye, vaguely glad that she had gained the temerity to give him a piece of her mind. He was taken aback, moth slightly drawn open, eyes indignant. Marlene smiled and found herself walking to get her clothes.

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**You know what to do...c;**


	9. Chapter 9

**I'm really shocked at all the response I got-20 followers! Thank you all so much! **

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When Marlene re-entered the living room Sherlock had dressed, glaring in her direction as he began to re-create his laboratory. Marlene scuttled over, both curious and timid, her reflection caught in the translucence of the Erlenmeyer flasks and beakers and long swirly glass tubes, reminding her of the misery that had been chemistry class.

"So…." She began, venturing out uncertainly, only dipping her toe in the water. It'd be as good a time as any to try to patch things up, regardless, she had to spend a week here. The detective pinched the bridge of his nose in utter annoyance; Marlene took a step back, her face falling.

"What?" He asked, the word coming out more sharply than he'd intended. Giving her a sideward glance, he saw that she put her hand up and paused, thinking on what to say, but also noted the way she dressed: jeans, a V-neck shirt, and a cardigan. Not to impress; to keep warm.

"Do you need my assistance? I mean, I took it down and all…." She trailed off thoughtfully, deliberately looking in the other direction. "Well, I'd figured you would need some help. It took me about an hour." Her tone had become small and offended, posture slightly sagging.

"How could you possibly help me?" He spat, again regretting the acidity of his words. She winced, daring to step closer.

"I'm not an idiot." Marlene's voice was flat, used-as if she'd just been slapped, and the thought of doing so had crossed Sherlock's mind more than once this morning. She seemed to pick up on this, and a little cloak of shame surrounded her. "I may be nervous, but I'm perfectly capable of functioning." Her posture straightened, he could see a little glimmer of tenacity in her eye, her digging for that audacity which he knew she hid; she shifted her weight carefully to avoid getting in the way of his precise movements of grabbing glassware. "And I think you of all people should know about trying to function with a vice."

Sherlock sat the beaker down on the counter, it rung slightly upon hitting the surface, making the encounter seem more unreal. A deduction? It must've been, it would explain how she'd known…unless John said something, which he doubted. It was about time her mind was working to its full potential. The shock outdid the pleasure of the situation though, he opened his mouth to speak, but it was too late; her eyes were narrow framed by glaring eyebrows and a frown threatening to turn into a snarl. She was content with the look of astonishment on his face, she hadn't quite humiliated him, but she proved a valid point.

She stormed out of the kitchenette, hands clasped together until her knuckles were pale. A door slammed; Sherlock's own bedroom door.

She wanted to sulk about and act like she owned the flat? Fine. The blue dressing gown remained crumpled on the floor in a pathetic blue heap. Sherlock kicked it fiercely out into the living room with surprising anger and force. John had gone to a job interview; he had been nervous about leaving the warring parties alone together. And rightly so.

* * *

It had been hours since she'd slammed the door, and Sherlock hadn't heard a thing at all from the direction of his bedroom, causing an unfamiliar emotion to surface: worry. Was it possible that she had committed suicide? He wouldn't doubt it-she had a condition. Could it have been possible? Just taken one of John's belts and attached it to the light fixture, pinning a note to her shirt before jumping off of his desk chair—

His hand fondled the doorknob, coaxing it to turn without noise. Natural light filtered in through the window; he cringed. He'd never opened the curtains unless it was absolutely necessary. After his eyes adjusted, he was privy to something…unexpected.

Marlene was sleeping in his bed.

_The side I don't use either. How considerate. _ He thought sarcastically, wrinkling his nose in mild disgust.

Sherlock ventured into the room further. At least suicide was ruled out. Her breathing was slow and steady, her expression again anxious and tense. Further inspection revealed sticky tracks down her cheeks, most likely….

Most likely….

_Most likely dried tears. _He concluded, a little stunned. Molly had told him that he always said the most horrid things, but he'd written it off as her overly-sensitive nature, her being too infatuated with him. Again, it felt like crippling an injured innocent. There was no choice. He'd have to apologize; especially if he wanted her to stay for the rest of the week. Not that he did, of course, she just needed to be safe. _Because she doesn't deserve a violent death._ He told himself.

"Marlene," He said. Nothing. Then, shaking her shoulder. "Marlene."

She slapped his hand away after a stunned second, her fingertips actually making burning contact with the back of his hand, then pulled the covers over her head.

"Go away."

"Marlene!" Sherlock's frustration with the woman was only increasing each time they spoke. Like hell she'd kick him out of his own goddamn bedroom. "You could help me, if you'd like."

"A reconciliation, perhaps?" Her voice was muffled, but the venomous spit of his toxic words flung back at him stung as intended. "Please. If I was down in the road, you'd kick me."

That was the peak of his anger. He ripped the blankets off of her violently, flinging them carelessly into the wall behind him. They crumpled at his feet.

"Do you honestly think I'm that cruel?" He roared, and she rushed, falling off of the side of the bed and staggering over to the corner, sinking to the floor.

He'd just made it worse. _Damn it all. _

Never in his life had he encountered a Marlene: part emotional wreck, part easily read, and part undecipherable.

"Yes," She began meekly. "Adding this as a factor; however, I'd rather not get shot." She'd seen him angry and it terrified her. He was thin and wiry, but could probably throw a few good, accurate punches that would shut her right up. It wasn't worth the risk. "With these things considered, I can bear it and we'll just have to tolerate each other until I can leave."

The way he calmed down so rapidly was almost as frightening as the way he was when angered. Once again she'd caught him wordless; she took some sort of perverse pleasure in it, seeing him search for what to say; she felt like she was winning.

"I apologize," He finally said, after a while of tense discomfort. Then, more mildly: "I'm sorry."

"You should be." She blurted out without thinking, regretting it instantaneously, but hardening her eyes just the same, taking on a defensive stance just in case it came to blows. "You seem to know what I go through. Why would you even do that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I'm not going to hit you. And I doubt you've gotten into very many fights. Your stance is all wrong. You use sleep to escape your condition-which can be quite debilitating at times-as well as outside situations. You lack social skills." He leaned against the doorjamb, eyeing her disdainfully. Once again, his anger had taken control; now was the time to deduce, to replenish his reputation as a genius.

"So do you. Not to mention the fact that you have absolutely no self-control." She muttered, folding her arms and looking out the window. The streets were bustling; right now she'd give anything to trade places with one of the men or women busily walking from work or to the shops. "Probably what got you so into drugs at one point. We can all play the guessing game, Mr. Holmes, but you still didn't answer my question."

"Which was?" Sherlock inquired, raising an eyebrow, placing a hand on his hip. She tossed her head like a horse plagued by a bee; his attractive/irritating half-smile was probably at its biggest now.

"I asked you why you'd even do that." She repeated, sighing, as if she had given the same five-year-old the same lecture about five million times. Marlene looked at him suddenly, turning her head first, then her body, shadowy in silhouette against the window's grey light.

"But you answered it yourself. I have absolutely no self-control. Apply your deductions, Miss Tate, and you won't be at the risk of looking so idiotic. I'll be putting my lab back together. Come out whenever." He replied, striding across the living room to his makeshift lab. Once he was as far out of earshot as possible, Marlene grabbed the pillows off of the bed, screamed into them, took a moment to count to ten, and then followed him out into the kitchen.


	10. Chapter 10

**I know. Late update is late. **

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"So case files in this pile, contacts in this one, and this one?"

"Research," John answered automatically, thumbing through manila folders, hearing her sigh. The absence of any consistent feminine presence made him acutely aware of all her actions, down to the smallest blink, breath, movement. Her hands moved deftly in front of him, uncapping a pen, marking the folder with an "A," and opening it, scanning thoroughly through a few papers; again sighing.

"I don't know how I'll even manage this. His penmanship leaves a lot to be desired." She stated, shaking her head. For such a brilliant human, his handwriting was a mass of undecipherable chicken scratch each page, with no order, rhyme, or reason, and he insisted on writing on unlined paper. Leafing through the papers, she found a few "A"s and stuffed them into the folder.

Sherlock had left for the day, something about going to the pathology lab to finish his work -"in peace," she remembered he had said, remarked with the usual snobbery flung at her, and John was getting sick of having to kick his way through papers whenever he wanted to go upstairs. They would organise 221B, even if it killed them; even if they drowned in the deluge of papers.

John cleared his throat. He was now thrust into an awkward place, by his own machinations as well: Marlene doing the work dutifully, not talking, but not exactly offering comforting or companionable silence. Trying to initiate a smooth conversation with her was like trying to take a splinter out of a child's little finger-painful for both parties involved.

"Well, what got you to Baker Street?" He asked without thinking of anything good to say beforehand, cringing at the clunky structure and the lack of flow this was taking. Marlene suddenly halted her work, turned her head a quarter of the way toward him. Her pupils were pinheads in grey irises, their decreasing because of the now open window.

"Do you really want to know?" There was something both weary and ominous in her tone-like she had explained it and was tired of doing so, like it was a terrible thing, like she didn't even want to tell him. However, her features were wistful, highlighted by the dull light filtering in from the window.

"Yes." John said, hoping that he hadn't asked her the wrong question, one that could trigger an emotional breakdown. His expression was one of suspense, he had always been curious as to why an author with books that sold a few million copies moved into the flat that had almost been claimed by the damp, until Mrs. Hudson finally saved it.

"My agent dropped me." She said these words very carefully, avoiding the threat of quivering speech, then went back to filing. It was as if this little exchange had been separated from whatever she'd been doing before, as if it would taint the task at hand. Surprisingly, though, she elaborated, her fingers dancing over a few fluttering pieces of paperwork. "Because I couldn't pump out two books a year. I mean, I know; I'm a writer, it's my _job_, six to ten pages per day and that, but…but…" She struggled momentarily, snatching ruthlessly at the papers, searching for a way to describe it or her composure or both. John watched her flounder curiously; she stopped abruptly again, looked straight at him, making eye contact.

"It's not a faucet, you know. You can't just turn it on and off whenever you feel like it. It either comes in dribbles, or full-force, or sometimes it just doesn't. That's the easiest way to explain."

John nodded and tried to look sympathetic. She hadn't said what exactly "it" was, but he knew. Something between inspiration and an idea and putting the idea to paper. He'd never been very good at it himself; English had never been his forte in school, he preferred history.

"I see." He replied, even though he was having a hard time envisioning it. Then, with remarkable hesitance: "Any relationships?" Again, the full stop of work, like smashing into a brick wall while running. She laughed cruelly, the sound tugging at her throat and coming up in spikes of jagged glass.

"Right now? What a joke. I'm terrible at them. Why?" She countered, raising an eyebrow, not helping but to wonder what he was getting at. He was a nice man, _damn _nice, but not her type at all.

"I dunno. I mean—I'm not asking you for one, if that's what you thought," Pink bloomed on the doctor's cheeks for a moment and then faded. "I was just wondering. I had a girlfriend. A few actually." That didn't come out right at all. Marlene only nodded bit, now avoiding any type of contact with him, only meticulously filing. Fingers were finicky on the pages, restless; she was formulating a decent reply.

"Well, I had a fiancé once." She said slowly, finishing a folder, starting a new pile of finished work, grabbing an empty folder. "Had." She reiterated, finally looking at John again, just to be sure.

"What happened?" John asked, despite all his instincts telling him not to, telling him that he was pushing boundaries, that he was going too far. _Could he have died?_ An internal cringe began, waiting for something, anything, to happen. He casually checked for a pallid strip of skin around the base of the left ring finger, a little trick Sherlock taught him. Nothing. It must have been ages ago, and here he was, picking the scabs off of all her old wounds.

"It didn't work out." She said narrowly, and he could feel the relief seep into the places where the cringe had begun. At least he wasn't bringing up a death. He opened his mouth again, despite all the rationality telling him no, telling him to stop.

"And the anxiety?"

"He didn't know about it." She replied flatly. There was no trepidation in telling him; as far as she could see, he was a medical doctor; it didn't overstep many of her boundaries if he knew one way or another about her problem. John only raised a doubting eyebrow. "I mean, we were only engaged for a year—"

"A year?!" John kicked himself mentally as he heard himself speak. "You could barely keep it a secret from Sherlock for two seconds." Marlene wisely ignored this comment, going on after his small interlude.

"—Mark was never a very observant man; our parents pushed us to get engaged. There was very little romance. He proposed at his mother's insistence and I said yes at mine's. Then, I guess a few months before we were supposed to get married, it all fell apart. I just, I don't know, I couldn't deal with it (or anything else, for that matter) anymore." She finished, sorting through a large stack of papers. The work was a numbing relief from the burning awkwardness of having to tell him. It was never easy, organization or love; she always managed to screw it up one way or another. And John was being rather inquisitive today.

"So you called it off?" John asked. Marlene tried to mask her annoyance with him, at all his little questions. As irritated as she was by him at that moment, it still felt good to tell the truth to someone here, to have someone to trust.

"I had a breakdown in front of him. He decided I was too dramatic since I had a 'fucking fit over what fucking font to use on the invitations.' It was really for the better I suppose, him leaving. I didn't really need marriage-I had just started my first book-and I sure as hell can't see myself with him today. But still, a part of me wants him to know everything, what had been festering: all the things with the book and looking for editors and agents, his apathy, my family's urging me to start a family of my own, and on top of it, an entire wedding to plan myself." A comfortable quiet had settled over the room like a pall after she'd stopped speaking. The two worked side by side for a while. It had better be a damned close friendship then, Marlene rarely divulged any sort of personal tidbit…but he had an honest face, she thought, and he wouldn't attempt to psychoanalyze her, unlike the other one would. He was a nice man. A really nice man, so why not open up to him? She highly doubted he'd tell any of this to Sherlock, there was an ostensible feel that he would keep this confidential.

Perhaps she'd have a friend. Her first one since Uni.

As much as John didn't want to admit it, interacting with Marlene while Sherlock was gone was pleasant. He at first perceived the detective and the author only as catalysts to one another's sourness, but small changes in their behaviour while dealing with one another began to deviate from the treacherous norm that he'd come to expect. The way Marlene acted more solemn and withdrawn around him (although, perhaps, he purely intimidated her) was a good sign, she was controlling herself, or how Sherlock would call her into the kitchen-lab on occasion to have her help him. Only a few times did John check up on them; two volatile people plus potentially dangerous and semi-toxic chemicals were never a good mix, to make sure there were no "spills," shards of glass embedded in flesh, glassware soaring across the kitchen. He wasn't sure on Marlene, she seemed to be rather demure with conflict for the most part but did have quite the spiteful streak and Sherlock…well, John didn't doubt that he could be capable of _something. _What he saw surprised him. It was so out of the blue, their cooperation, there was no verbal mud-slinging, just working, him teaching her, having her take down notes, all quiet except for Sherlock's low bass mumble of directions to her.

These things planted a very disconcerting seed into John's head; he could feel it gnawing incessantly at the back of his mind. _I'm Sherlock's only friend, what is she then?_ Marlene couldn't be a girlfriend, no, Sherlock didn't date—well, maybe Irene if it had been possible, but what they'd had was a real connection, rather platonic on Sherlock's part too. But Marlene and Irene were two completely different animals; and if Sherlock had fancied Irene then Marlene definitely wasn't his type.

Everything taken into account, it was much easier to deal with only one of them at a time.

The sound of John's ringtone burst the bubble of muteness, and he picked up his cellular, coming back to the present. Marlene had finished most of the filing; she was making good progress as he'd been ensnared by his thoughts, and was now onto vacuuming the living room. The job had called back, they were interested. Finally, after being broke for ages, some good news.

"Marlene! Job called back!" John hollered over the roar of the ancient vacuum cleaner, pulling on his jacket. "See you around five!"

"Alright!" She called back. Marlene had always enjoyed vacuuming; the straight lines in the carpet seemed to put everything in order for her. As soon as the rug looked like a freshly-mowed lawn, she turned on some music, turning the radio dial until a jazz station was reached. There. Sherlock was out, John was out, and she could relax. Now for the most daunting task: Alphabetizing the bookshelf.

Loads of textbooks, mostly medical references, chemistry periodicals, vintage science books. Intriguing. He seemed to already have a system; an organised mess: One bookshelf for reference, another for fiction, then mostly history and biographies and the like. Immediately, running her hand along the dusty, unopened-in-ages spines of the fiction books, she judged his taste in literature. There was a short volume of Poe, of which she approved, Chaucer's _Canterbury Tales_, _Frankenstein_, _The Divine Comedy_, _Dracula._ Classic literature and gothic literature, mostly, very few contemporary works. The man oozed intelligence; it didn't just seep from every pore, it bounced off the walls of every room he entered and left a residue. The reference section was the most difficult; all the books were so heavy, the history bookcase was easier, and finally, the fiction shelf.

As she stepped back to examine her handiwork, she noticed something that had slipped under her radar before. A leather-bound book, fat and covered in dust, sat alone on the bottom shelf of the fiction bookcase, as if banished there, to the far corner.

Curiosity got the better of her.

Marlene wiped the copious amount of dust off of the cover, it was oddly blank. Searching for a possible title and author, she opened the book to the front cover.

A photo album. Marlene couldn't contain a smirk. Finally, she'd have something on him.

A little boy with dark curls and a haughty sneer, a pudgy older brother with ginger hair; both clad in matching school uniforms. Marlene flipped the page, her smirk nearly going ear to ear. The same dark-haired boy a few years earlier, in a raggedy pirate's costume, complete with filthy puffy shirt and mismatched pants, caught making a sofa cushion fort. The pages were yellowed with age, creaked with protest as she turned them once more. A wedding photo this time—an attractive woman of about 25, an older man with dark hair going grey, obviously wealthy; her dress looked designer, his tux was expertly tailored, the wedding party was well-dressed and huge. Marlene fell back into Sherlock's chair, turned more pages with interest.

* * *

"John! What did you do?!"

The flat was in pristine condition, but he could tell from just standing outside that something had changed; it smelled strongly of pine oil. There were vacuum lines in his rug. John always cleaned, but never this extensively. This…this had been a woman's touch. Not in a sexist way, just the precision, it had to be a woman. A very exacting woman. Jazz music played softly in the background. He knew exactly who was behind this, and sucked his cheeks in indignantly.

Immediately, he looked over to the laboratory: undisturbed. At least she had the sense not to meddle with anything then. Thank god. Looking straight ahead now, Marlene, rooted in his chair, immersed in looking at a large, old, leather-bound book. She looked up at him, eyes soft and repulsively trusting and innocent.

His photo album.

He tore off his coat and scarf with a sudden wildness that made her jump in her place, threw them to the corner, not bothering to hang them up.

"Give me that, that's mine!" For a second, Marlene faced a giant, clawing panther instead of a somewhat sane, rational man. He snatched the book from her hands roughly, leaving them empty and wanting; she shrank back into the grey leather. "Where's John?"

"Got a callback from the job," She responded, proud of how even her voice was, after a moment of regaining her poise. Everything went stale all at once, even the homey jazz music warped into something scathing and discomforting. She got up and turned it off. Sherlock was glaring at her, going to hang up his coat and scarf, cradling the photo album. "Your family is quite attractive," She continued, keeping her back to him, for the sake of having noise rather than anything else. Sherlock still seethed in the corner; this woman was going through his private property and cleaning his flat for him and sitting back down in his chair, extending her chin into a cupped hand, and it was all so terrible and confusing and exciting and disturbing.

_Pupils have dilated, she takes slight joy in seeing others squirm. _Her eyes, looking up at him in an open yet prying way revealed something inquiring; something had sparked her interest.

"What did you do to my flat?" He demanded through clenched teeth. She smiled up lightly at him; he could've kicked her until she stopped moving.

"Organised." She said, feigning politeness. Then, taking out a random case file, pointed to the chicken scratch sprawled all over the page in no order whatsoever. Her head was getting lighter, reality was getting less real. She bit her lip until it drew blood. _Stop. _She chided herself. _You are in control._ "Your penmanship is absolutely atrocious."


	11. Chapter 11

**30 followers now! So excited! **

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John arrived home around five; an atmosphere of anger and uneasiness surrounded 221B like a dense, putrid mist. Rushing up the stairs to put an end to whatever was going on, he crashed into Mrs. Hudson, nearly knocking her over. He half caught her, seeing a distraught shine in her eyes, and she half caught herself on the banister, but still clutched him for support.

"John! Thank goodness you're finally home. Sherlock and Marlene are at it again." She told him, wringing her hands in worry.

"At what?" John asked quickly. Either they were arguing or something else entirely was going on. Mrs. Hudson's frown deepened, her hands holding a kleenex in a death grip and anxiously twisting it to and fro.

"Oh, bickering again." She sniffed, shifting her weight.

"What about?" He demanded, inhaling sharply, mind filling with different images: Sherlock throwing a punch here, Marlene kicking a shin there, Sherlock retrieving his pistol in anger, Marlene slapping him so hard that a red hand mark decorated the detective's face. "Has it come to blows?"

"Oh no! Just going on about what to have for dinner. I guess I should settle down a trifle. At least I don't have to make your food." John let his breath out in a gust of relief and then hurried into the flat.

"Christ! You and your laboratory. I can barely cook anything." Marlene whined, throwing a dishtowel on the linoleum in frustration. John sighed. She and Sherlock were so alike in some aspects; and at the moment they were both positively intolerable. The detective simmered on his grey leather chair, knees to chest, anger coming from him in a miasma, holding an unfamiliar leather-bound tome, glaring at the television, another Connie Prince memorial special.

"Well make _something!"_ Sherlock spat. Marlene stared at the back of his head from the kitchenette, awestruck at his lack of gratitude, and at her own as well, seemingly parallel to his. _Are you fucking kidding me?_

"Would you both just shut up and stop?! You're driving me insane and I haven't even been home two damn minutes!" John roared, and the two suddenly put off their mutual distaste for each other and noticed his presence. Sherlock turned to, John momentarily, eyeing him as if he were no more than a bug on the wall; Marlene waved.

"Shut the door, John." He said, sounding like a reprimanding mother. "There's a draft." He pulled his dressing gown around himself more to ward off the chill seeping in, turned the volume up on the television. Marlene rolled here eyes, started banging pots and pans around in the kitchen, already making a mental list of his annoying little habits: he was headstrong, manipulative, rude, and divisive. Certainly much different from the gentleman she'd met only a few days prior, the one who asked for her phone number. Maybe it was just a personality clash: her remnants of the psych 101 class she'd taken in Uni diagnosed him as bipolar with slight OCD tendencies. John's interruption brought the two to an uneasy stalemate, but the air was already poisoned with noxious, unspoken insults. They'd shot a few low verbal blows at each other, and Marlene made a conscious effort to hold in everything she wanted to say, her feelings of wanting to completely destroy his detestable self-confidence, her urge to slap him so hard his nose bled, the onslaught of panic when he first came in and caught her red-handed with the photo album, which was really what this whole stupid thing was about anyway, really. As much as the doctor's presence was slightly irritating-_only in the sense that I can't properly defend myself_, Marlene thought-he acted nicely as a buffer between the two; the two of them were terrified of letting him down.

_Those god-awful changes of mood he has, _Marlene thought, a frown etched onto her mouth, going over and checking the refrigerator for any type of food. So it would be chicken, then. That was the farthest away from the array of human appendages and miscellaneous body parts he had lying around on the plastic shelves.

Dutiful feet plodded into the kitchen, feet that sounded as if they had just gotten a lecture, feet that sounded as if they were walking just to humour someone. Marlene peered over from her place at the cutting board distrustfully; it wasn't John, the stride was too far-spaced, and although it was heavy, there was nothing military about it. The man in the blue dressing gown looked at her in utter repulsion. Despite her growing unhappiness with the living arrangement, she found herself blinking back tears, biting her lip, trying not to get upset. If he had noticed, he didn't say anything. She tried to shake it off, to let his obvious hatred of her roll off of her shoulders, but couldn't. It was much easier said than done.

The goddamn package of chicken.

It was bending this way and that under the sharp point of the knife, unyielding, finicky. Her struggle won a disgusted sigh.

"Do you need...help?" Sherlock asked, as if talking to her was a particularly nasty chore. _Like he's changing a litter_ _box. _Marlene added in her mind, only causing a lump the size of an apple to form in her throat. Why did she always do that to herself? She blinked before looking at him, cleared her throat, carefully guarding her countenance, and shook her head.

_"No._" She responded, in a sharp stop-being-idiotic tone, but somehow it sounded more jagged and strained than she wanted it to. Perfect. Even making a fucking chicken breast was now a breeding ground for emotional wretchedness. She struggled with the package more; before she knew it, a metallic glint hit her eye and soon blood was running down her thumb.

"Fuck." She said, somewhere in between a mutter and a frustrated hiss, throwing the knife angrily into the sink, slamming her uninjured hand on the counter. A sudden craving for some sort of drug hit her, some sort of sleep medication, something where she could tune everything out. _Pop a fucking Sominex, that should solve your problems._

"Marlene," Shelock said, very matter-of-factly, so much so that she felt like strangling him. "It is not in the least sanitary to cook with an open wound." He only saw her grey eyes flick up to him momentarily as she turned on the faucet, running cool water over her thumb. He abruptly walked out of the kitchen, demeanor changed; he was no longer bored, he was on a mission. Walking throughout the flat with some sort of purpose. _Either real or imagined; most likely the latter_. Marlene's mouth straightened into a tight, humourless line. She clenched her bleeding thumb in a paper towel and stood, leaning on the edge of the sink, waiting for the bleeding to peter out. She'd nicked herself pretty good, not a deep cut but one that went form the top corner near her nail to where her thumb met her hand. And of course it would happen in front of Sherlock. She always fucked everything up in front of him. Even with all the contempt and disgust he treated her with, she craved his approval so badly it sickened her; she strived to gain some sort of pleased reaction. He rarely praised her when they worked in the "laboratory," it seemed more like he wanted a lab assistant that wouldn't talk much and was a bit miffed that he had to re-teach her chemistry-a subject she'd never been too fond of anyway, she always strayed more toward English and art.

He surprisingly returned only a few moments later with an antibacterial medicine and bandages. Sherlock placed them on the counter, grabbed her hand, peeled off the paper towel.

"Not deep." He murmured, feeling a rare strike of remorse. His flat was now cleaner than it had been in months, and he got home and yelled at her. She tried so hard, a woman with absolutely no chemistry experience, to help him in the lab, mixing molar solutions (the first one had been a disaster), correctly setting up apparatus. _And what do you do? _The little John Watson in his mind questioned him. _You scream and yell and throw a tantrum. _Marlene refused to look at him, which he found mildly disturbing, but occasionally took small, suspicious glances, keeping tabs on how he moved, where he moved. She detected nothing at all but pure scientific interest, that same look in his eye as when he'd helped her out with the shooting-

_How many steps backward this has taken. _She thought bitterly. _From perhaps interested to utter repulsion. _A force dragged her heart downward and made her stomach drop to her feet, again almost bringing tears to her eyes. There was a Marlene that was there in the kitchen of 221B with Sherlock, him attempting to tend to her hand, and then there was another that had retreated into her own mind, taking refuge, remaining detached. _And all because you can't just fucking keep to yourself; no, you had to look. _The two Marlenes became one again and she blinked a few times, ensuring that her eyes would successfully swallow tears, wondering why she took such offense to his aversion to her, wondering why she was putting up this antagonistic front.

Out in the living room, John had his eyes perched over the newspaper, watching with fascination and a latent notion of jealousy.

It had been nearly a minute, the bandage had been stuck carefully on, but Sherlock's hand traveled lower, pressing her wrist gently. Marlene finally stared up at him, brow convoluted in shock and question. _75 beats per minute. Average. _Sherlock looked at her again, feeling something like disappointment; it was at an escalated rate. Like he was almost sure it would be. She tore her hand out of his grip, turning so hard she spun on her heels. Shock and hurt made themselves evident on her face; as to why they were there he was puzzled for once.

"Stop it." She said indignantly, going back to the package of chicken, successfully cutting it open, going about the motions of making dinner.

"Stop what?" He countered, folding his arms over his chest, leaning back on the ledge of the sink. She gave him a poisonous sideward glare, then turned her back to him, cutting the chicken viciously into strips.

"You know what." She muttered darkly. He remained silent as she continued to hack into the poultry. "Taking my pulse." He pulled the dressing gown around him more, looking to see if John had in fact shut the door. A sudden chill had come over the room.

"Good observation; however, you need more work with technique, subtlety, and deduction." He responded. Marlene was dumbfounded. Finally, some praise. "You're a bright girl. You aren't entirely stupid-"

"I know." She cut him off coldly. The time was too late for praise; he should've said something earlier, in her opinion. She'd take it though, he didn't seem at all the type to dish out compliments. As of now, she was not enjoying the company of His Pretentiousness. Outside of the kitchen, a newspaper page flipped, Marlene shuddered, feeling a chill go down her spine. "What are you getting at?" She finally asked. Being direct would be the best course of action, she decided, it wasn't worth any more pre-conceived notion induced panic attacks. She turned around once more, looking into his eyes, folding her arms over her chest and matching his stance. Hoping to look more intimidating than she felt, she corrected her posture minutely. There. He was a tall man, but she was a tall woman. The eyebrows framing the eyes over the newspaper raised. Sherlock blinked, once, twice, then spoke.

"You have such potential."

Her eyes darted up to him in disbelief; she'd been looking at her stocking feet.

"So?" She asked, hating herself for acting so juvenile, hating Sherlock for bringing it up in front of someone and acting so peculiarly, hating John for not going somewhere else, hating the situation. "You quite obviously get a bad taste in your mouth if you think anyone could be as clever as you are." She said casually, as if reciting a fact. Again, a blank yet insulted expression from him.

"Let me mentor you. Before I change my mind."

"I don't need a mentor-"

He hardened his jaw, jutted his chin out at her and growled:

"Don't be an idiot. My opinion of you varies from day to day and this is too rare an opportunity to waste."

"You certainly think highly of yourself." She responded haughtily. John whistled from the living room, Sherlock glared at him, and Marlene was grateful for the diversion. Talking to him for that long was like being placed under a microscope. She turned back to the food, trying her damnedest to prepare dinner without interruption.

"Before I change my mind." He thundered through clenched teeth. "You have exactly thirty seconds."

"Fine."

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**Thanks for all the response! Leave a review please, but be kind about grammar/spelling. I typed this up on a kindle. Ugh.**


	12. Chapter 12

"Try again." Marlene could note the sliding pitches of exasperation in Sherlock's voice; her mentor, her tutor whom she'd come to know so well in the past week or so. It was a relief to finally go back to her own flat once the windows were fixed, but also somewhat terrifying; she certainly didn't want to be alone and shot at again, but as horrid and mean as it seemed, it was a relief to be away from him. His persona varied from extremely charming to extremely hostile and could change in a second, and for now Marlene decided that he was best in small doses. Lately, though, he'd been complaining about not seeing her for "lessons." In fact, Marlene recalled, with a half-smirk, that he'd seemed a bit reluctant to let her leave and go back to her flat. This memory both elicited elated and furious feelings; elated at how he seemed to like her more, furious that he wanted to keep her under his thumb. She politely made the excuse of having to write-at least six pages per day, and it wasn't a lie, she was working on a new neo-noir novel, having finally found a different agent. He frowned at this, crossed his arms, and told her to meet him in the park the next day.

So here she was, sitting next (but not too close) to him on a park bench, holding her phone as if texting, him with a book, having a discreet conversation, both of them looking completely absorbed in their independent activities.

"She's a dentist. Or an oral hygienist." Marlene whispered, keeping her head down, eyes flicking from the woman having a picnic with her boyfriend to her phone. Sherlock sighed, this whisk of a page prickling her ears. He probably _was_ actually reading, the man could finish a novel in 3 hours, and she was sitting mashing buttons on her phone.

"Good intuition. But how do you know? Details, Marlene. The devil's always in the details." He mused. She sent another imaginary text, then sat her phone down, shook her hair out, dug through her purse like she was looking for something. _Idle hands will give you away. _Sherlock's voice reminded her. She'd been caught staring twice and it was always embarrassing. Marlene huffed.

"I just _know._" She responded, still rooting through the bag. Sherlock took his eyes off the printed words for a moment and considered her; a light frown on her mouth, slight breeze ruffling stray hairs, her shirt. To the park she wore a bit more makeup, light eye shadow and mascara; nicer clothes too. This could be because she was going to be seen in public or because she was with him...he'd invite her over to the flat the next day to see if his latter assumption was correct.

"You can't rely on intuition alone. For pity's sake Marlene, use your _eyes." _At this point her glare struck him. "Well," The detective continued. "Go on. Tell me."

"Her posture. A little hunched over in the shoulders; a result of crouching over patients all day-"

"The slouch could also suggest a secretary." Sherlock interrupted, a smug smile toying with his mouth. Marlene didn't know if she wanted to slap or kiss him. She finally turned to him, addressed him with an saccharine-smile that verged on a snarl, putting her purse down on the bench between them. _Setting a boundary._ He closed his book and decided to look back at her.

"I was getting to that." The smile dropped; she was annoyed, strident. "The way she moves her arms-for efficiency. Her wrists have tiny indents where latex gloves would sit-she must've gotten off of work not twenty minutes ago. That makes sense then. A casual date, evidenced by the nice makeup and blouse but also a pair of jeans; she took the train home-her hair is still up and she didn't have much time to re-style it, and, as you always remind me, the jewelry. No bracelets, but small earrings and a necklace. Mismatching." She finished, wrapping her cardigan around herself. Sherlock made a mental checklist of the woman himself, seeing how his deductions aligned with Marlene's, and nodded slightly, tapping out a rhythm on his book.

"Not terrible. You're making progress." He said, opening the book again and finding his place. She turned her head, unable to even look at him, folded her arms, and slumped back into the bench.

"That's exactly what you'd say." She muttered, kicking a pebble toward the walkway. It landed exactly in one of the cracks, turning three times before settling. The small scratching sound of the pebble drew his attention.

"What?" He asked, unsure of what he'd heard. Marlene's mouth drew into a tight line and she grabbed her bag and stormed down the sidewalk.

"Where are you going?" He called after her. She looked defiantly over her shoulder, flipped her hair with a curt toss of the head, and took a few more steps.

"Somewhere else." She hollered back, still walking on her way. She knew that the best way to make him angry was to be vague, he lived for the details, the tiny things he thought no one else could notice, so she left without a clear explanation. It was some odd justice to her; she would only feel validated if she could make him equally furious. So far, there had been no apologies between them.

The dentist and her boyfriend stared at the two strangers, who not seconds before had been sitting separately and were now yelling at each other. They'd suspected something was between the tall blond and the dark-haired man, but sat in shocked silence at the sudden outburst.

* * *

Marlene was walking to get a cup of coffee at the nearest cafe when a long black car pulled up beside her, slowed to walking speed. A luxury car, too, one she was fairly sure she couldn't afford to breathe next to. The tinted window rolled down, revealing only darkness and what looked like a leather interior.

"Get in."

"I really can't." Marlene tried to be polite, although she wanted to run down the street. "You see, I have to go home and-" She was lying through her teeth, and whoever it was would have none of it.

"Get. In." The two words, spoken by neither a distinctly male nor female voice were punctuated so coldly that she didn't dare defy them. Her hand reached for the handle, her eyes looking to see if anyone else was on the street, maybe if Sherlock had followed her. No such luck. She opened the door with hesitation, stepped into the car, sat on the soft leather seat.

"Where are we going?" Marlene asked, putting on the seat belt. Her voice was small, distant. The voice of a little girl lost, the voice of a young lady in way over her head.

"That is not for me to say." The androgynous voice of the driver replied, so robotic in nature that her arms broke out in gooseflesh. They were speeding down a few side streets, street signs a blur, pulling into an alley way.

_Christ. _A terrible thought occurred to her.

She was going to be hauled out of the car, knelt on the ground, and shot. The first attempt hadn't been successful, what made her think whoever it was wouldn't have a second go?

The car rolled to a stop.

She could feel it in her mind, the end of everything. Closing her eyes and groaning miserably, she could feel the cold circle barrel of the gun pressed against her left temple and the scrape of the rough macadam on her knees, how her nails dug into the palms of her hands, clasped behind her back and then the deafening report, the last, hazy thoughts, being transfixed by dark red blood and yellowish white shards of bone and grey, fleshy material in a splat on the dirty brick wall next to her, her head feeling peculiarly light on the right side as her eyesight began to fail, the iron taste of blood and crunch of shattered teeth in her mouth, the very last thing being the pavement sailing toward her as she sunk to the ground-

Two gruff looking men tore the car door open and one grabbed each arm; at first she strained, kicking, fighting, stiffening, anything to escape, but after only thirty seconds went ragdoll, accepting her fate. The threw her through a door into a heap on expensive ivory plush carpeting.

At once Marlene, grateful that she was still breathing, shot up from her heap on the floor, looked at her surroundings. An old fashioned lodge type room. Art deco lamps, a fireplace complete with a stag over the mantle, extensive mahogany woodwork, and old men sitting in overstuffed navy arm chairs, reading newspapers.

The attack was inevitable.

First, the simultaneous surrealness and hyper-reality, dazed confusion. She crossed her arms to mask the shaking, trying to keep it together as she approached an old man.

"Excuse me," She said, talking to the newspaper over his face. "_Excuse me._" She crushed the paper by the fold in the center, dragging it down with her index finger so that she could see his face.

The gentleman looked up at the haggard young lady, breathless and terrified, her eyes older than the rest of her face, tears at their corners.

"Can you tell me where I am?" The lady said, sounding like she'd just run a marathon. "I got picked up by two men and they just threw me in here." The elderly man remained silent, shrugging. "You must've seen it!" He shook his head no, trying to indicate something, something to do with his mouth. "Please!" A tear slid down her cheek. A hand shot out and clutched his lapel, shaking him. "Where am I?!"

Again, two men, as she'd said, came out of the stranger's room and hauled her off, putting a cloth over her mouth, but she was vicious, kicking, cussing, screaming, scratching, punching. The old man went back to his newspaper with wide eyes, feeling a bit of guilt, feeling like he should remember to take extra medication for his bad heart that night.

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	13. Chapter 13

Re-collecting herself from yet another pile on the floor, Marlene straightened up, putting a hand on her cringing lower back, looking nervously around, trying to steady herself; her eyes couldn't keep still, darting from detail to detail. Banker's lamps with green shades. A dark cherry-wood desk. A leather swivel chair. The desktop was stark, with little decoration.

"Miss Tate. Sit."

Marlene did as she was told; at this point she dared not try to fight or run, fat lot of good that did her, and what a _fucking waste._ Her head hurt and her whole body screamed in agony now. She looked to the ground, the carpeting was the same in here, but unlike the lounge, it had tall windows toward the ceiling, letting in light that captured floating dust motes, a small sight that usually comforted her but now reminded her that this was real, that she wasn't dreaming, and again she was thrust into the terrifying certainty that the next breath would be her last.

The chair swiveled around and the speaker faced her as she came to her senses once more and found herself sitting rigidly in a stiff-backed chair, knotting her hands together in her lap and clasping them until her knuckles were pure white. She raised her head slowly, not sure who the speaker was, not sure if she wanted to know. A rather tall, pudgy man with a sharp, severe face, now less striking because of age and overindulgence, hooded eyes, ginger hair carefully parted to the side and a tailored suit. No one she'd ever really seen before, but something was so familiar...

Marlene froze in place. She'd been wrong. She had seen him before. In certain photographs in a certain photo album. Her lips set themselves into a thin, tight line, her arms now braced against the seat's edge.

"It appears you have been in close proximity to my brother over the past few weeks." He said, steepling his fingers, knowing his authority. A sick feeling sunk like a rock into the pit of her stomach. She blinked once, twice, like a toad.

"Sorry, didn't catch your name." Marlene interrupted. A flash of anger streaked through his eyes, then left as quickly as it came. He was so much like his brother, but a tad more reserved.

"Mycroft Holmes." The man said, and despite everything, smiled. She raised a singular eyebrow. "You haven't made a good first impression by making a scene in my Diogenes club-" He started, noting Tate's mannerisms. She was anxious by nature, shifted her weight every few seconds, seemed to be on the demure side, but underlying that were cogs constantly turning in her mind, as if she was observing and making note of every little thing, but keeping it all to herself.

"Diogenes masturbated in public and defecated in the theatre." Marlene said. Perhaps she didn't keep it all to herself then. Marlene herself wasn't sure were the factoid had come from, but it had popped randomly into her head at the worst time, and she regretted it as soon as it was blurted out. For a moment, she thought the two men, _his henchmen_, she thought ominously, to haul her out into the alleyway and beat her to the edge of her life.

"You remind me of him," Mycroft said after a long while of considering her, disdain raining into his tone. Tate seemed to frown at this, tight lipped and quietly observant. He switched tactics, opening up his desk drawer. "Would you like a drink?" From it he drew up a few bottles of liquor and two etched glass tumblers.

"Sure," She said, very uncertainly, and he could see her eyes roving to the bottles, the seals of the bottles, to be precise. Checking to see if they were unbroken or not. So she was paranoid too, just like his brother. What a pair. He opened a bottle of scotch, deliberately breaking the seal so that she could see and pouring the drink in front of her. Her expression of discomfort increased as she turned her head. He sat the drink down in front of her. She still smelled it before drinking. Mycroft sighed, frowning.

"It isn't poisoned. God. Has he been giving you lessons, or something?" Tate peered up at him over the rim of her glass, and managed a smart smile. Any acrimony between them would lead to very bad things happening to her.

"Yes, actually." She responded, taking a sip, then holding her glass in her lap as she felt the fire go down her throat. The elder Holmes brother feigned shock, watching her swirl the drink around in the glass. It didn't surprise him that his brother would take up a protege, especially someone like Marlene. His brother could claim that he disliked the world, everything, all people, but sooner or later he would relent. Eventually he would realise that John wasn't quite fulfilling all his needs. _Unless he's swinging the other way now, _Mycroft mused. That wouldn't have surprised him either. Tate looked to him again, and he returned the smile and drank, sat his drink on his desk.

"So. What do you think of him?" He asked, tilting his head upward, a questioning gesture. She shrugged, swirled her drink again, asked for a coaster. _She's not entirely like him then; at least she has the decency to be polite. _He retrieved one from another desk drawer, she placed it on the side table and finally put down her drink. Her quaking had subsided, her breathing was steadier; a result of either the smile or the drink.

"Your brother..." She trailed off a moment, thinking of what to say, and a diplomatic way to say it. "Your brother has the intellect comparable to that of some of the world's greatest geniuses." She finished, and he nodded encouragingly. "But the disposition of a sulking five-year-old." Tate took another long drink after saying this, as if it reminded her of a particularly nasty run-in with him, which it most likely had. Her eyes wandered over to the edge of the desk and froze there, pensive and reflective, mulling over what she'd said. Mycroft allowed himself to laugh at this; it was true, and he would know that better than almost anyone else.

"That's always been his personality." He remarked, leaning back in his chair, smiling an ain't-life-grand smile if Marlene had ever seen one. Then, in a tone that matched her reflectiveness: "At one point, he wanted to be a pirate." His lips straightened out and his face went somber, as if remembering the child that had been lost. Marlene giggled a bit, not looking at him, and he smiled. He'd anticipated that reaction.

"I know." She said simply. He hadn't anticipated that. His face went blank, searching her for an explanation, eyes immediately tracking her. "Photo album. I organised the flat."

"I'll give you money." He started, on the far edge of frightened for once; this meek woman had torn down the collected government agent facade in a matter of minutes and it all had to do with his baby brother and two small words: Photo Album. "If any of those photographs were to be released it would-"

She laughed a little, a sound much different from the giggle, a prickly sound with jagged edges; he could detect a bit of something foreign about it.

"Blackmail? I wouldn't do that. That's not very nice." She gave him a winning smile. All at once, Marlene had the upper hand, and she liked it, liked it _a lot, _so much that the rush it gave her was terrifying; the surges of empowerment that coursed through her veins was better than any drug she'd taken to ease an attack. "And he's teaching me now. I couldn't take your money in addition to learning such valuable skills."

"Miss Tate-" Mycroft began, giving her a horrified stare. She picked up the glass and downed the rest of the scotch like a shot, sat the empty glass on the coaster.

"Thanks for the drink. Maybe I'll see you around." She replied casually, quite aware of the social faux pas, starting to shake a little again. "I've got to get home, and if you please, I'd rather not be manhandled this time." She flipped her hair with an almost arrogant toss of her head, and walked out through the main entrance.

His brother had definitely gotten to her.

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	14. Chapter 14

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The fresh air that hit Marlene's skin was invigorating and brisk as she ambled carelessly down the street, her mind set on getting that coffee before she stepped foot into her flat. Lord knew she deserved it. Her phone beeped insolently in her pocket; she rolled her eyes, knowing exactly who it was. _Oh hell. _She thought, kicking a bottle cap on the ground. _Does he have to do this now? _

**Get back to your flat**

** -SH**

She glared down at her phone, and after some consideration, carefully plucked out a message with her thumbs.

**Why? **

She pressed "send;" almost immediately after she did so the phone beeped again. God.

**It's been an hour. I haven't a clue where you were and you haven't told me a thing. **

** -SH**

Marlene frowned, sending another text, then shoving her phone roughly into her pocket.

**Alright, mum. **

* * *

Sherlock was sitting on her sofa when she opened the door to her flat, fingers steepled, eyes closed, calm and cool as ever. This was becoming a relatively frequent occurrence, and she'd stopped caring, or at least persuaded herself to stop caring; however, at the moment she felt like punching him for making her hurry home. She took her shoes off at the door and put them in a neat line near the doormat, then went over to the counter, where her mail sat. Mostly junk, a few magazines and catalogs. He had started taking it in for her lately. It was opened this time. Marlene felt her blood simmer.

"Dull. All catalogs and offers. So, how was my brother?" He asked, opening his eyes and seeing her scowl down at the neatly ripped envelopes, then feigning shock as she looked up to him. Sherlock tried not to smirk. She shook her head slowly at him, then went over and sat next to him on the sofa. Closer than she'd sat to him in the park, he noticed, but decided that was neither here nor there.

"Fine, I guess." She replied, refraining from telling him the whole story in its entirety. The less he knew the better, but she felt cold, calculating eyes on her as he angled his chin to view her, to see if she was lying. There were bruises on her cheek and collar bone. Sherlock frowned; he'd have to have a word with Mycroft about that, it awoke fury deep down; it had been different with John's injuries, of course there was this underlying personal feel to them, but the fact that they would nearly beat a woman was horrifying-especially one who had done nothing wrong. Once again Marlene felt overwhelmed by his attention, feeling herself become distant, shutting down under his watchful eyes.

"Your breath smells of scotch." He said, then a little more darkly. "There are bruises on your cheeks and collarbones, probably defensive ones on your arms too, but none that can be easily detected, no black eyes. I'd venture to say that one of his agents drove you to a meeting place-"

"Diogenes Club." Marlene cut in, feeling like she could use another drink or five. "Why he would want to emulate Diogenes I'll never want to know." A ghost of a smile flickered past Sherlock's face. "He thought I was going to blackmail you with the photo album. He offered me money." She felt him inch closer to listen. He was at a dangerous spot, the thin border between love and hate in Marlene Tate's mind: hate for the effect he had on her but an odd, stupid love for it too.

"Did you take him up on the offer?" Sherlock asked, stretching, then rotating towards the television again, turning it on. Marlene got up from the couch, shaking her head "no," going to her refrigerator.

"Pity. We could've split it and lived like kings." Marlene smirked into the icebox. He _would_ say that. She asked if he was hungry, he said no. Marlene sat down again, got out a book.

"So," She said before opening to her bookmarked page, crossing her legs, wrapping her sweater around herself. "How'd you know I was with your brother?" Her foot was jittery and wouldn't stop air-tapping. He again looked over to her, tearing his eyes off the current reality show on trash telly, wearing that half-smile that she was always ambivalent about, that she was never sure if she wanted to hit or kiss.

"Are you actually asking, Tate?" Sherlock inquired in disbelief. She folded her arms sourly, putting her book down with a tiny, soft, thump, unsure of how to respond. As was the trend, lately, when talking outside of lessons.

"It's Marlene," She said, the first thing she could think to say. And you know it." His smile completely vanished, a blank, searchlight look replacing it. She looked out the window, afraid to meet an accusatory glance, feeling scared and wooden.

"Marlene." He said, after clearing his throat. _She won't make eye contact. Most likely afraid it will trigger an emotional response. _Then, the small, internal John that rarely talked piped up from the back of his mind: _She's been through enough today, don't you think?_

The television ran on, talking to itself. Marlene found she preferred the noises of the cars and the noises of the street and Sherlock found that listening to the quiet, uniform footsteps of Mrs. Hudson was much more entertaining than the entire situation. He left wordlessly after a while, and Marlene turned off the television and settled on writing for the rest of the night. Her flat felt strangely void.

* * *

Two o'clock in the morning.

Sherlock Holmes was playing his violin at two o'clock in the morning.

Marlene tried to cover herself with pillows, blankets, sheets anything to keep the melodic strains from reaching her ears, but all to no avail. She sighed; it wasn't that he was _bad_, his playing was excellent, it was that any hour of sleep was precious; she hadn't been sleeping well lately. More exactly, she hadn't been sleeping well since she left 221B to go back to her own flat after the windows were fixed, she'd been staying up listening to him play for reasons she couldn't quite articulate. She lay in bed, hearing the violin and staring either at a curtained window or up at the ceiling, and wondered if he had noticed her lethargy, that she had fallen asleep during lessons once or twice, that there was absolutely no sound in her flat until ten o'clock in the morning.

_And why now, of all times, would he drag that damned thing out? _She asked herself, cursing the violin and its owner along with the gorgeous melancholic sound that seeped through ancient drywall and plaster. Against her better judgement, she got up, put on slippers, and took the few paces across the hall. The door was closed, but Marlene knew how to open doors silently. In college she'd grown great at not getting noticed. A carefully turned doorknob, and he would have no clue she was watching. She heard a sigh from inside, the gentle knock of wood-on-wood as he sat the violin on a table.

"Come in, Marlene." He said, and his footsteps, which now seemed curiously heavier than usual , came close to the door, and he opened it.

"Hi." She said, not daring to step across the threshold, then finally doing so. One of his arms flew toward the menagerie of furniture; she sat down.

"I suppose you're here to chastise me for playing at such an hour." He said, grabbing the bow and toying with it, finding its natural balancing point and letting it rest on an index finger.

"No," Marlene said carefully, the reason switching in an instant. "I thought it was beautiful. I..." She faltered for a minute as he looked toward her, eyebrows cocked, watching her flounder. "...I wanted to hear you play more." He smirked. _Why can't you just not do that and make this easy for me? _She wanted to scream at him, but continued on. "If you don't mind, that is."

"Of course," He said, taking up the instrument, starting a different song. Something low and mournful, it looked challenging from the way his fingers moved on the the fingerboard, how the position of his hand slid up and down the neck, the dramatic dynamic changes, burning one minute and ice cold the next. He definitely had a passion for it, gently lunging in place at each accented note, retaining a type of grace as his body moved fluidly along with the bow. Marlene felt a vague, deep-seated attraction for it, and then began to recognize the feeling more and more: repressed arousal. Her cheeks grew bright red and her whole face became hotter than her body. She was glad for the darkness that shielded her embarrassment.

The piece soon finished and he smiled complacently, peering to his one-woman audience, suddenly seeing how intrigued she was. It was either him or his playing. Damn it. Marlene was terrible for experiments, she was too sporadic.

"That was lovely," She said honestly. He remained still, putting the instrument down. Marlene both bitterly hated him and intensely desired him at once, he was the meeting point between art and science that she could never be. He absent-mindedly tapped out a rhythm with his bow, which was now slung over a shoulder. After some hesitant thought, he finally spoke.

"Would you like to learn?"

"Oh no. I don't think I could. My artistic aptitude doesn't stretch that far. And besides, we're both tired." She said softly, hyper-aware of John's snoring, eyes focused on her slippers, hands resting with fingers splayed out on her thighs, hair mussed from tossing and turning in bed. Again, she refused to look at him. _Strange. But understandable, given the condition. _His brow knitted together.

"I'm not tired. I regularly stay up for days on end." He argued. Sherlock had learned not to snap at her. The gratification of using a nasty tone when he wanted to wasn't worth seeing her wince.

"You're weary. You've been overworking yourself." She contradicted, finally looking up. Now he saw it, in the faint light of the cow skull. She_ was _tired too, dark circles carved out the area under her eyes. He opened his mouth to give a rebuttal, but she got to it first. "I see it on your face. When you think that I can't. You taught me deduction." He closed his mouth.

"Just attempt it, please, Marlene." He requested after seeing how uncomfortably she shifted under his gaze. She brushed back a piece of her hair to a small spot behind her ear, got up and walked over to him.

"Alright then."

It was a bit difficult to see in the dark, but she tried to hold the violin correctly per his instructions; she deduced that he rarely kept the lights on while he was playing around this time, just the soft glow of the cow skull above his table. Streetlights outdoors provided a little more lire, but also produced a nice and strange contrast on his face, yellow incandescence highlighting his features and purple hues that bathed the hollows of his face.

_Goddamn it. _Marlene thought, trying to push it all back, the beginnings of infatuation, the nervousness, the odd hopes as she clutched the violin. _I'm falling in love with him. _

"No Marlene," He said, and she remembered how smooth his voice was, derailing any train of thought about music that she had. "You are failing to grasp the basic concepts." He curled around her so that his stomach was to her lower back, propping the instrument up higher, correcting a shoddy and hideous bowhold. "A violin has four strings: the G, the lowest, the D, the A, and the E, the highest. Putting your fingers on the strings will change the pitch. Do you know how to read music?"

"A bit," She said, trying to keep her voice from cracking or going high and girlish, trying not to shake, but started to go into that weird, panicky half-world.

"Good," He murmured into her ear, his chin over her shoulder, inhaling her scent, feeling her pulse speed up. There were so many variables. "Damn it!" He hissed, wanting to know what exactly was doing this to her. It would be close proximity or fear of failure or not wanting to wake John or virtually anything.

"What'd I do?" Her voice was tinged with alarm suddenly, he could feel her begin to tremble, feel her erratic heartbeat against his chest. "What is it?"

"Marlene, what is having this effect on you?"

Marlene turned her head so that her mouth gently brushed his face, retreated a few centimeters, and Sherlock found himself shuddering. _Not unusual-given the stimuli. _He concluded.

"You're a brilliant detective. _Deduce _it." She challenged bitterly, the air reverberating off of his cheek, bouncing back onto her lip. He twitched a bit, as if she were nothing more than a gnat, a mere annoyance. _But that's what I'll always be for him. An annoyance. _

Something small and wet trickled down her cheek and onto his neck. He found that he'd been correct-it was him causing this, and now had the upper hand, but there was an underlying disappointment that he couldn't fix it; that it was just him, it would probably always be him. _The makeup at the park. The panic attacks. The now-increased pulse. All. Me. _He would've smirked, but the small rain-drop that fell on his neck made him decide not to . _  
_

"Marlene," He said, taking the violin and sitting it on a nearby table, remaining close. She hadn't been accustomed to the solitude, she'd been looking for an escape from it. Marlene turned her head away from his mouth, absolutely sure that she'd ruined everything. He could see it in her posture. This tortured woman, so unlike any others he'd known; very different from The Woman that he decided he had probably harbored affection for, whose theme he'd been playing barely half an hour ago. This Not Molly, This Not Irene, This Not Sally, just Marlene, with a completely different set of rules to follow around her: No sudden movements or loud noises, don't stare, don't speak too harshly. He found that following these had become much easier the more time he spent with her, but she rarely smiled in his presence, she retained a wan, cynic's expression.

It all made sense now.

She was in love and terrified.

His lips went to hers, out of wanting to fix it, wanting to let her know it was fine, and something he couldn't quite identify. He didn't like it; he rarely kissed anyone as it was too unsanitary, but she was surprisingly sweet when she kissed, she raised her head to meet his nearly involuntarily, with docility and light pressure. Marlene withdrew after only a few moments and stepped away in horror.

"I'm so sorry." She whimpered, and ran out of the room. The door of 221C slammed in the otherwise still night.

* * *

**I know it's a bit longer than what I've been doing, but tell me if you like it or not!**


	15. Chapter 15

It'd been days since Marlene had come out of her flat, and days since Sherlock had been in it. To say the least, John was concerned. They were acting so unlike they usually did; it was as if she went out of her way to avoid him now. Sherlock wasn't taking it well, he was either going to the pathology lab all day or doing odd experiments on human bodies or playing the violin loudly at even stranger hours.

Something had happened a few nights ago.

That he was sure of. It'd been when Sherlock was playing his violin. John was in a drowsy blur, but heard his friend stop and admit someone into the flat and low mumbling. After at least an hour, a door slammed somewhere within the building.

But, there was always the possibility that another person had entered the flat. Which was equally worrisome, perhaps even worse, because if they even had the intent of hunting Sherlock down-

The noise of sloshing water made him look at the closed bathroom door. Sherlock had been in the bath for four hours. He always stayed in the bath when things troubled him. John sighed, looking at the paneled cherry wood door. He'd been right. It was Marlene, because who else could it be? Who else did Sherlock have, right now? It wasn't Irene, it wasn't Molly.

"What are you doing in there?" John called to the closed door. Then, quiet and more hesitant: "Is everything alright?"

"Bathing." Sherlock's voice came from behind the door. "I'm fine." John frowned knowingly. Of course. He always took forever in the bathroom, but he'd gotten less and less attached to his day-long baths lately. Whatever had happened must have been deeply upsetting.

"You must be filthy then. You've been in there near four hours. Christ, Sherlock."

"John, quiet please. I'm going to my mind palace."

* * *

How many days had it been? Marlene lost count. The wall calender mocked her. Her eyes traced the x's she used to tick off the days. Four. Well, that wasn't terrible then, she was working on her novel, it was justifiable to stay in for four days. Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

A shock of electric blue defined her pixie cut instead of the usual blond, and she cringed just looking at herself.

She hadn't _meant_ to colour her hair like that; it was a huge accident.

The kiss had left her completely shocked, consequently, she ran out of his flat and had a panic attack on her own, under her covers, where it was safe, and hadn't slept a wink. Sherlock was so...complex; he made her stomach churn and her cheeks turn red and her mind vehemently rejected his pity, which was exactly what it must have been. Just when she thought she knew him, he went and did that, so different from his usual harsh, reserved way of doing things, he'd been gentle and nice and lovely and _spontaneous_. Marlene wanted to tear her own hair out and hide in a cave for ten or twenty years.

But instead, after her episode was over, she decided to match his impulsiveness and do something shocking, something that would throw him off; something that would rattle him as much as he rattled her. It was only fair.

So, early the next morning, she went to the drugstore, searching for inspiration. The neon-blue dye caught her eye immediately. _What would he do_, she mused, _if I showed up next lesson (if there even are any anymore, that is) with a blue streak in my fringe, for no reason at all, just for the hell of it, just because I fucking wanted to? _Marlene cackled as she picked up the bottle. A young man stocking shelves looked at her like she was insane. She wouldn't doubt that herself. She rotated the bottle, checking the label. Semi-permanent, it would wash out in four to six weeks.

"On you it'll show up just fine. You won't have to bleach it first." The cashier smiled reassuringly as she rang Marlene up. Marlene hurried home and then set about trying to streak her side fringe.

The fucking bottle cap. She should've checked it in the store. It had cracked and blue dye went everywhere- on her counter, on her floor, in her sink, but mostly, all over her head. No amount of washing would change that.

And now her hair was an obnoxious shade of electric blue.

She didn't dare go out, no one would take her seriously...but food was getting low and she could always tuck it up into a hat. Marlene rose, dug through her closet, found a hat, and pulled on her coat, tucking her hair up as she rushed out the door, right into John. She straightened her hat nervously, trying to surreptitiously tuck any showing hair away. John saw the hat, considered it for a moment, then dismissed it. Probably a bad hair day, something like "it's just not sitting right today," or whatever; women could be so picky about their hair sometimes.

"Hey Marlene," John started, and she looked up at him a trifle too quickly, eyes darting with paranoia, a hunted animal. "If you're going out, could you pick up some milk? Sherlock never gets us any. Either he or I will pay you back for it and pick it up later." He gave her a winning smile, seeing her ease up a bit. She decided that she wouldn't care if John saw, they'd have a good laugh about it and then it'd be over, but if Sherlock saw it she was done for. The man had a long memory and would never let her live it down, and besides that, he would say something entirely rude. She wasn't sure if she could take it after the incident. Marlene trotted down the stairs and then down a few blocks to the Tesco.

* * *

_Marlene._

Sherlock sunk deeper into the bathwater, which had grown cold and murky from soap, knees breaking the surface and jutting upward like icebergs.

_Nervous condition. Sweet when kisses. Norwegian. _

He was no longer in the bath now, he was enclosed completely within the pristine walls of his mind palace, running his fingers along the things he had etched there: a large slab of glittering white marble entitled "Marlene." All of her mannerisms, habits, perceived emotions, everything she'd done in front of him was recorded, as was the case with John and Mycroft and Lestrade, but somehow, her wall wasn't as easy. There were so many deductions that he couldn't be certain of; engravings that disappeared and reappeared at whim. Things the general public knew, obviously her writing career, what she wrote, stayed set; her own private nuances and secrets were the ones that glimmered.

Naturally, it frustrated him to no end. It didn't help that his mix of curiosity and frustration only made it more taxing on her either. Sherlock wanted to find what made her tick, and he wanted it to be definite, he wanted to fill the wall up with every possible detail of her: if she had any birthmarks, and if so, where, how many boyfriends she'd had, if she'd gotten any dental fillings, the exact topography of her face and body, how she acted when she was completely at ease (although he wasn't sure if that could ever happen).

**Marlene got the milk you neglected to get. Please go pick it up for me at her flat. **

** -JW**

He rushed to his room to get dressed.

* * *

Marlene had just taken off her hat when an impatient knock pounded at the door. It must've been John, right? Sherlock would be out on a case, doing something interesting, probably forgetting both her and what happened completely while she sat here in her flat, stewing and making herself miserable over him. Therefore, it had to be John.

"Just a second!" She called after another, firmer knock. Maybe John's lunch date had gone poorly; maybe he left early. It put her more at ease than the alternative possibility did. Yes, she and John would have a good laugh about it. _And then you'll sit here and rot some more. Honestly, Marlene, your self-perpetuating misery is disgusting. _

"Come in," She said to whoever was at the door, getting the all too familiar head rush and feeling stupid for it. What did it even matter, she was just going to sit and obsess over whatever would occur, cross-examine it, replay it over and over in her head.

"Blue?" Marlene turned around at the sound of Sherlock's voice, telling herself not to get so caught up in it but at the same time realizing that she couldn't help getting tangled in his perception of her. "What are we, twelve?"

Marlene stripped the milk put of a shopping bag and handed it to him wordlessly, a little storm cloud heavy with rain. The flat suddenly became very _dense; _Sherlock tugged minutely at his collar, he couldn't identify the atmosphere.

"Here's your milk." Her words and body language were quick and cold, dagger like icicles hanging precariously from a roof, before she could turn back around he caught her hand.

_Oh God, here we go, _Marlene thought, her soul dipping a toe out of its body. She looked at him, and underneath all the anger he saw a frightened woman.

"Why would you do that?" He asked, adjusting his tone, becoming softer. Marlene dropped her eyes, wriggling her wrist out of his grip and leaving the milk in his hands. She wasn't sure what he was referring to: her impromptu exit four nights ago or the new hairdo.

"I wanted to." She said referring to both. It was as if he genuinely enjoyed antagonizing her. Marlene bit her tongue and fought back the tears blooming in the corners of her eyes. He gave a knowing, concerned glance, pulled her mail out from a coat pocket. She snatched it from him and held it to her chest. Unopened this time.

"The stains on the counter top say otherwise." He said quietly. That was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back. She whirled around, threw her mail down on the floor, bursting into tears, kicking all the envelopes to the side.

"Why do you do this?" She asked, not brave enough to turn around, not wanting him to see her cry, shuddering. "Why?"

"Marlene, what are you-" He began, but stopped short, catching himself, realizing that he was about to say _Marlene, what are you on about now?_ It wouldn't be the wisest thing to say at present. She sat down on the sofa, putting her hands on her lap, taking measured breaths. Sherlock frowned, padding silently to the kitchenette and placing the milk on the blue-stained tile counter.

"What l's the matter?" He asked, and she finally paused long enough to speak.

"You. You are precisely the matter, and I don't know why." This was a lie, she knew exactly why: she was falling in love with him, the first person she'd ever felt so strongly about, and all she could do was sit and rot and watch him pity her. "Why is this so difficult?" She hissed, dropping her head into balled-up fists, grabbing handfuls of the hateful blue and pulling them. More strands came out than should have if she was in a healthy state of mind, Sherlock noted. His face softened momentarily. "You see this?" She asked, tears still pouring down her cheeks in steady streams. This was exactly what she had wanted to avoid. Opening a tightened fist, she let little blue hairs float to the ground. "This is you. You see these?" She pointed to the dark areas under each eye. "These. Are. You."

"Marlene-" Sherlock started, walking over to the couch, sitting near her; she shot away from him like he was noxious.

"No! You open my fucking mail and then you go and kiss me when you fucking know that it makes me upset so I decide to put a blue streak in my hair and end up like this." He leaned back on the sofa, looking over inquisitively, and then it happened.

It got worse. It always did, just when she thought she couldn't, just when she thought she would go over the edge at the point she was already at. This had only really happened twice before: applying to University and the wedding invitations. She was leaping off a building's edge, going beyond the atmosphere in a great big red hot air balloon, get dragged by a wild horse with her foot still caught in the stirrup.

"Oh God oh hell where's John I need John he knows how to calm me down something's going to happen something bad oh hell oh fuck oh fucking hell it's going to take four hours like with the invitations." Words. There were only words and bright sparks of nerves that caused fires of full on panic, and she felt her moth moving, she felt herself tuck her knees to her chest. "I need coffee I need a cigarette I need to go outside I need to die oh fucking hell." Everything came out in a stream of consciousness and there was no use stopping it, the car she was driving developed a mind of its own and sped down the highway. Sherlock was up, dashing to the kitchen, hurriedly making coffee, spilling water everywhere, throwing a pack of cigarettes down on the counter with a lighter. For once, he was overloaded, overwhelmed, there was too much for him to analyze; what had she even said and what did she mean by it? He wanted her to calm down, he wanted to tell her that it was fine, he didn't care if her hair was blue it was her own damn hair and what did it have to do with him anyway? He wanted her to know that he was _safe, _that she shouldn't worry around him. He wanted to ask her about the four hours, the invitations, the kiss.

The kiss.

That was exactly what did it, now that he recalled how jittery she was, before and after. He felt horrible and sheepish all at once, very rare for him, like he'd done something irreversibly wrong and would spend ages atoning for it. He could hear Marlene rationing her breaths again, calming, calming. The smell of coffee eased her; she closed her eyes and leaned back on the sofa.

Things would be different, he could tell.

* * *

**Over 50 followers & 20 favorites! Thanks everyone. **


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock carried the coffee over to Marlene, cigarette sitting jauntily in his mouth. She took the coffee, chest still heaving, tears still running down cheeks that had gone red and were gradually going back to their normal color, and groaned, jolting forward and opening her eyes. He lit the cigarette deftly, taking it out of his mouth and handing it over to her.

"Thanks," She said weakly, plucking it from his fingers, making sure not to touch him, feeling a terrible nausea as always when this happened. She went over to the window, opening it, putting her coffee on the sill, grabbing a kitchen chair, and sitting, taking a thoughtful drag, knowing his lips had been on the cigarette not twenty seconds before and feeling something like nervous wonder. There was the scratch of a kitchen chair being lifted, and then sat near hers, the click of a lighter. She was beginning to take shallower breaths again.

"So the dye bottle...exploded?" He asked. Marlene turned away from him slightly, avoiding the smoke the left his open lips and exited through the open window, folding her arms.

"I don't want to talk about it," She said sullenly, knowing that she was sounding like a bratty child, but if he could do it then she could justify it. Sherlock nodded. He'd been right, she was being stubborn. There were blue stains all over the dishtowels. "I'll be stuck with it for four to six weeks." Marlene stared down at her bare feet, side by side with his patent-leathers. He wanted to know something more, she felt it so much she could almost taste it, she knew that he was going to ask in about ten seconds-

"What did you mean, that I'm the matter. You seem to know why, too." _Damn it. _She couldn't have any secrets. He was looking over at her now, and she felt obliged to look back, and she shrugged. The streetlights captured his face again, and he looked beautiful, like the star of a foreign film, like someone poets would go mad dreaming about. Marlene wanted to cry. She wished she knew how to explain it to him.

"It's horrible." She said flatly, peering at her toes again, sinking in her chair, flicking the ash from her cigarette out the window. "I just sit here, infatuated, and it's like I can't do anything about it. I ferment and go insane because I know you won't ever feel similarly. You pity me. It's so obvious. I've ended up loathing myself because of this. I feel so _pathetic._" She spat out the last word, gritting her teeth, staring ahead steadily. "I don't want your pity. I want your affection, which won't ever be possible." Finally, she peeked up. His face was stone, jaw set. He was letting his cigarette burn down, hand dangling outside the window. _Damn it damn it damn it. _Marlene felt ready to die.

"Who said anything to you?" He asked quietly, evenly. It could have been entirely possible that someone had gotten to her and fed her things about him; perhaps an enemy, or even someone from the Yard who didn't care for him. Staring at the skyline was easier than looking at her right now. His face was breaking her heart.

"No one. It's how you treat people, and to be honest, you treat people like shit." Marlene replied, without thinking, and then winced. _That'll make him like you, definitely. You tit. _She scolded herself. She thought he would get up and leave, but he stayed.

"I don't treat people poorly. I treat them how they deserve to be treated, until they prove to me otherwise." He countered, and she sighed, managing a fake half-smile. He appreciated her effort, but was still puzzled: What made her think he abhorred her so?

"Exactly. Like shit. I obviously wouldn't merit enough for a return of affection." She responded dubiously. He looked over to her for a moment, seeing the sadness take root; evident in her slouching, her frown. She must've thought he was horrible, he reasoned, but she still kept trying, she still kept tolerating. _Very persistent. _He noted, appraisingly.

"I am capable of returning affection." He said. "I didn't know you well enough before." It was a terrible justification and they both knew it; he could know someone's life story in a mere 5 minutes and call it dull, but she accepted it for some reason. She pushed a blue strand behind her ear and finally turned around toward him, leaning her arm on the back of the chair.

"Really?" She asked, and he could detect a certain mischief in her tone. Relief flooded him, her jocularity was a good sign; however, he knew she could never look at him quite the way Irene would look at him, or Molly, or even Sally for that matter-

Marlene was placing her lips on his when he backtracked from his thoughts, realizing that he was being kissed, and for some reason, he didn't mind it; she tasted like coffee and cigarettes, arms tentatively around him. He pulled her closer and decided to make it last longer than last time (after all, this was intended this time) and he thought it would be and interesting experiment: to see if she could go through a kiss without having an attack. Marlene was being coy and pulled away slowly, feeling him follow a bit with his head.

"That was interesting." She said, sniffing a bit, wiping her face with her sleeve. Neither party wanted to admit their true thoughts. Sherlock remained silent for some time, attempting to deduce something from the way she kissed, her lightness. He concluded that she might be very loving at the right moments and when the mood struck her. A smirk struck his face, he took a long drag and blew it out in rings. Marlene watched the smoke rise from his lips in small circles then dissolving into large tendrils. He had his usual cat-that-ate-the-canary smile on.

"I am too capable of giving affection." He said, somewhat triumphantly. Marlene leaned with her elbows on the window sill, pensively looking down at the lights of Baker Street, her chin in her palms and her cigarette consuming itself. His smile faded in the quiet of the flat; he studied her profile for a bit, then the buttons on his coat. She opened her mouth cautiously.

"So should we..." Marlene tried to formulate some sort of sentence and lost it. The prospect of being physically closed to him drove a spike of terror into her mind and body. She knew she was worrying over nothing and loathed herself.

"What are you suggesting?" He asked slyly, noting the way she dipped her head, depositing ash out the window. Her eyes were wide when her head snapped over to him. His mouth fell into the familiar smirk.

"No! Not that, I wouldn't...I mean, not that I wouldn't but...Oh, never mind about that." She waved a dismissive hand. "I mean, that's not what I was suggesting. I guess I was suggesting being in a relationship." She turned her head away from him. "But not really. Like a trial." She added quickly, after some thought. "As in, we'll try it out but won't be overly-serious."

Sherlock turned his collar upward; Marlene dared herself to take in his reaction. He seemed amused, as if he thought it'd be a wonderful experiment, something interesting to do when there weren't any cases. She strived for the same expression, as if they were doing this only to humour one another, but it went deeper than that. Sherlock nodded.

"An experimental basis then. Why not?"

* * *

**Hope you liked this. As for what I have in store for the next few chapters...it makes me laugh in the most evil of ways. **


	17. Chapter 17

Thankfully, the blue was completely out of her hair within two weeks; it took three washings per day and she needed to get her normal colour in dye but she was able to fix it. Over the course of her washing it out, Sherlock had been consistently in and out of her flat, under the guise of checking on her, but she doubted it; he probably just wanted to see what colour her hair would be next. The blue itself was watered down to a sickly green colour that he said looked like bread mold.

"How sweet," She replied, turning on her heel and going back into the bathroom, turning on the shower.

She'd been considering this as she went to get a cup of coffee on a whim. Her coffee machine had broken, as probable result of overuse with Sherlock in the flat nearly all the time now. Marlene slid into a booth at a familiar coffee shop, looking at the charming yet hideous artwork on the walls, the bohemian decor, and took out her phone to bide the time until the waitress came over. A man sidled in opposite her. Marlene looked up abruptly and dropped her phone, starting to get nervous, but his somewhat unintelligent smile made her realize that he was relatively innocuous. The man had largish features despite being rather spare, brown eyes and fine, straight brown hair. Instantaneously she compared his looks with Sherlock's; this man wasn't much compared to him, his nose was bigger and more scoping. Otherwise, he seemed alright.

"I walked in and saw you sitting alone. Would you like a cup of coffee?" The man said, shaking dark hair out of his face. Marlene first bit her lip then smiled graciously, despite her lack of interest. He could turn out to be really nice. _And that would be refreshing. _She thought somewhat wearily.

They got around to talking over their cups of coffee, and he didn't come off as all that bad-and he was sane too. That was a large requirement for her. He said he worked for the Yard, so Sherlock probably knew him; the man was a crime scene investigator, but she refrained from mentioning her neighbor. He wasn't well like there, for reasons she couldn't fathom; his intellect seemed essential to each case he worked on, even if his little habits could be rather obnoxious.

An actual, formal dinner date was set for Friday at seven o'clock, and for once, Marlene didn't dread it. She left the coffee shop smiling; perhaps she could be a normal, decent human being for once and enjoy herself out on a date. This man could be read rather easily, and he didn't seem to have any ulterior motive of any sort. He could be a genuinely nice fellow, a real gentlemen even. It'd be wonderful, it'd be _healthy _for her to go out with him, she reasoned.

* * *

Marlene sat in front of the mirror on Friday night, putting on mascara very carefully, making sure her hair sat "just so" on her head. It was tedious and grueling, and at once she remembered why she hadn't liked dating all that much, besides the panic attacks, but her excitement outweighed the negative thoughts. She was going on an _actual date, _and she hadn't had any episodes about it. Crossing to her closet, she slid on a pair of black pointed pumps to match her black and white color block dress and walked out the door, crashing squarely into Sherlock.

_Great. _

Him, of all people, he was the only thing this week that had induced any panic attacks; and she'd thought she was doing so well.

"Marlene, I was just coming over to give you your mail-" He started, then took a look at her attire. "Where are you going?"

"I got asked on a date. And I'm going." She replied lightly, feeling not only butterflies but wasps in her stomach. He cocked his head to the side, looking at her as if he actually meant to see her from a new perspective. He handed her the mail, which she threw onto the table in her flat, then carefully picked a piece of hair off of the shoulder of her dress. Upon inspecting it and seeing that it was her own, he threw it to the side and let it glide down to the floor.

"I'm not entirely sure that's within the contract." He said evenly, seeing her roll her eyes, feeling a pang of envy. Who could this man possibly be, that she would consider dating him?

Marlene had forgotten the contract.

The morning after the second kiss, he showed up at her house with a ten page document detailing the conditions of the relationship and an attorney.

"Isn't this what people do in S&M?" She'd asked curiously while skimming through it. The attorney nearly spat out his tea; she wasn't sure if it was from laughter or because he was shocked. Sherlock only glared at her a little and forced her to read the entire thing. Mainly rules about what would happen if any further physical interaction were to take place, rules about the sharing of residences, but oddly enough, nothing too constrictive on her part, every constrictive condition was placed on him.

_XII: Sherlock Homes is able to stay with Marlene Tate if he fathers her child OR pay child support in the event that he physically cannot be present or does not wish to be. _

_XIII: Sherlock Holmes is willing to support Marlene Tate financially if need be (i.e. loss of home, death of loved one, et cetera) for the duration of the relationship. _

_XIV: Both parties may date while in the tentative relationship; however, it is acceptable not to as well. _

__"Who wrote this up?" She said after reading it, crossing her legs uncomfortably. All of this was very sudden, and most of it was serious. Promising to stay with one another if she had a kid. Financial support. It made her world begin to spin again, and she felt oddly light. He most likely hadn't written it, with all the conditions placed on him. He produced a pen from his pocket and handed it to her.

"My brother and his legal department." He responded, watching her sign and initial, doing the same after the papers were pushed over to him. It figured. Mycroft so obviously cared for his baby brother so much that it was almost suffocating him; if Sherlock knew the extent of Mycroft's surveillance he would be horrified yet pleased.

Marlene, after a few moments of thinking through what she'd read about a week ago, right before the attorney snapped the document into his briefcase, gave him a small, knowing smile.

"Contract says we can date." She said simply, heading back into her flat, sorting through the mail. Junk, mostly, a water bill, nothing special. Her feet felt unfamiliar in heels after a few years of going without them; the little clicks they made on the floor were so funny and foreign to her that she stopped walking on her tile floor in the kitchenette a few times, wondering where the sound was coming from, then realizing that it was her shoes.

"Not used to your shoes." Sherlock said, making a "tsk-tsk" sound. "Well, where is he taking you?" The detective was expectant, then like a stern father: "Your dress is rather short. I'm not sure you should wear it. First impressions are always the ones that linger."

Marlene tossed the mail onto the counter, folded her arms, looked up at him warily. "Nowhere in the contract did it say that you can dictate how I dress." She grabbed her coat, then started out the door, continuing on as if he'd never made the remark.

"He works at the Yard. You might know him." Marlene said in passing, starting down the stairs, again hearing the weird click and stopping, adjusting her balance. Sherlock froze. She couldn't have been stupid enough to date anyone from the Yard...

"Name." Sherlock demanded. Marlene shot him a tiny look of disgust and disbelief, then caught herself. It was only natural for him to want to know who it was.

"His name's Anderson. And I know it's embarrassing, but I don't quite remember his first name."

* * *

**Love the response. c:**


	18. Chapter 18

"What?"

Sherlock could only look at Marlene with a disgusted and wounded expression. She shrugged, feeling a pang of regret at accepting the date, and started down another step. He'd heard her perfectly, but for some reason she couldn't connect the withering look to any feasible reason of why it should be there. So she gave him a few moments to say something, if anything, pretending to double-check her purse for her phone, money, extra lipstick. He saw right through it and finally spoke.

"Marlene, you can't do this," He said, steepling his fingers to his mouth in a praying position. Anderson was irritating, repulsive. Sherlock would do everything in his power to get her to stay home. "I won't allow it." He lunged forward and caught her upper arm. She whirled around, gasping at his perceived possessiveness, slapping away his hand, shocked and hurt, shaking him off. His hand retracted back to his side. He was so unsure about her still. _She's wearing makeup, a dress, heels. When has she ever done that for you? _Sherlock's face was stone but his mind and stomach were churning. _Although, I've never really asked her out on a date. _The look she was giving him was unbearable.

"Get your hands off me! You don't own me!" She shrieked and stomped down the rest of her steps, her heels making reports like crisp gunshots as they snapped down on each step. She opened the door and took a last, distraught look at him. Again, he saw what she was trying to do. _She's giving me a chance to say something else. _

"Marlene, he's-" Sherlock began, urgently rushing down the stairs. She shook her head disdainfully and slammed the door, hurrying into a cab before he could get to her. The detective stopped abruptly, staring at the closed door in the doorframe where her form had been seconds before.

"-stupid." Sherlock finished, then headed up the stairs. She wanted to go out with that idiot? Fine. Yet his steps were heavy as he entered his flat, put on his dressing gown, got a book from the carefully alphabetized shelf. It wasn't fair it wasn't fucking fair they'd signed a contract and Anderson didn't even deserve a woman like her he would just irritate her until she broke and he would never ever treat her well-

His phone vibrated on the coffee table. Pausing from the stream of disorganized thought that he loathed, he sat the book down, momentarily running his fingers along the cover, he reached for his phone. A text from Marlene.

**I'm sorry for being harsh. What were you on about anyway?**

Sherlock got up and started to pace. What would he tell her? She'd obviously been looking forward to the date, hence the attire, but she needed to know. If her knees looked like Sally's had when she got home...

He picked up his phone and began to pluck out a long message. It was nearly a paragraph by the time he was done; detailing all of Anderson's irritable ways: from his annoying habits to his dogmatic ways to his chauvinistic personality; anything that would make her want to leave. The reports Anderson always typed up in that intolerable Comic Sans font. Anderson's obsession with bad sitcoms. Anything. Only a few minutes later, he received a reply.

**Oh, he can't be that bad. I'll at least give him a chance. It's more than you would ever do.**

Sherlock threw himself down on the sofa, turning to lie on his side and face the back of it, glaring at the afghan.

* * *

Marlene got out of the cab, straightened her dress, adjusted her pocketbook, striding toward the restaurant and feeling strangely out of place. It had been years since she'd gone on a formal date. Swallowing saliva, trying to cure a mouth that had suddenly gone dry, she opened the door, seeing him in the entryway and smiling. Immediately he rose to meet her, gave her a small peck on the cheek that made her skin prickle, then took her arm, informed the maitre d' of there reservation.

Oh hell. He really seemed like a nice fellow.

That was, until he took calls before the menu even arrived, and until Marlene felt a foot travel up her shin over drinks, with enough included double entendre to make a sailor blush. Oh God. Sherlock had been right. A creep.

"Will you excuse me for a moment?" She asked, carefully slipping money under her napkin. That would cover anything he spent on her. She got up, asked where the restroom was, making sure to not make her intentions too obvious by blatantly grabbing her purse, but picking it up as if it were an afterthought. If he was truly as idiotic and unobservant as Sherlock had said, then she could live without him and he would never uncover her little plot.

Marlene entered a white stall, heels clicking on the tile.

"To hell with these damn things," She growled, wrenching them off of her feet and shoving them into her bag. She took a moment to observe her surroundings in the almost clean little stall, finding some amusing graffiti: _Izzy is a little whore_; _Max and Sara 4ever 10/10/10, _and then climbed onto the scratched and chipped toilet seat, then onto the porcelain tank. Perfect. There was a window.

She cracked it open, feeling cold air rush over her. It wasn't large, but she could struggle through if she was determined enough. One leg went out first, then the other, and she slid onto a wet newspaper feet first. What it was wet with she didn't want to know. Prowling over to the corner and looking out from the alleyway, there was no sign of life. Or him. Upon realising she was free, she did what any relatively sane person would do: she ran.

The air ripped at her throat like cat's claws, she could feel pebbles and debris stab her stocking feet as if they were tiny razor blades, and slowed down after four blocks, hailing a cab.

Marlene opened the door quickly, jumping in and shutting it in the same manner, telling the cabbie her address. For once, her breathlessness was pleasant; she felt good, no _wonderful_, as if she could do anything in the world, as if she could control things and make her own decisions.

_Empowerment, it's called. _She thought, staring down at a heaving chest, her legs aching with satisfying fatigue and endorphins swimming crazily in her brain. Once at 221B, she threw money at the driver and flew up the stairs, nothing a somewhat familiar car pull up as she closed the door. Bursting through the door to 221B, to Sherlock, to safety, Marlene ran over to the window to see a very angry Anderson stomping up to 221C and knocking furiously on the door.

"Date didn't go well, I take it." Sherlock said from the couch, observing her fearful motions of peering out the window furtively, absent-mindedly turning a page, smirking. Her date nearly caught her gaze. Marlene shot to the floor.

"Fuck fuck fuck." She hissted under her breath, then the heady feeling began. Finally, she spoke to Sherlock. "It was the worst date I've ever been on, which must be some kind of record, considering. I climbed out of the bathroom window before I finished my first cocktail. Of all the passes that have been made at me, this was the worst kind." Sherlock actually threw back his head and laughed. She would have appreciated the tone of his voice, the rich sound that reminded her of cellos and Colombian coffee, given a different context. She allowed herself a full giggle, but it was too late. The fear was beginning to set in as Anderson's knocks on her door got louder, as he started screeching profanities about what a whore she was and how she led him on. "I guess he finally put two and two together." She said in between the rude man's screams. Sherlock was quiet now, raising his eyebrows at each expletive, smiling as if this were all very amusing. Marlene wanted to punch him. His face soon darkened when Mrs. Hudson came through the doorway, looking absolutely helpless and terrified.

"Marlene, there's a man screaming simply awful things at your doorway." She said gravely. "Shall I call the police?" The poor landlady was knotting and unknotting her hands together, almost as distraught as Marlene was. Sherlock got up, put on his coat and scarf, and started to the door.

"We're aware, Mrs. Hudson," He said curtly. "And I intend to put an end to it." Then to the winded woman on the floor underneath a window: "Marlene, you're staying here tonight. I don't believe that Anderson is smart enough to break into your flat, but I do believe that being alone at present is the last thing you need." She looked a mess: her tights had runs in them, hair all askew, and a wrinkled dress. _She had to run for a period of time. _He nodded politely to the women, slammed the door to vent anger, then went down the stairs.

Marlene took a deep breath as she heard the sounds of yelling outdoors, and buried her head in her hands, feeling Mrs. Hudson's comforting and motherly touch on her shoulder.

* * *

**Again, overwhelming response. Thanks all!**


	19. Chapter 19

"Oh God," Anderson whined, feeling an ache in his head as the familiar coat swirled and swished around a tall wiry frame, making the wearer almost phantasmic in nature. It was him. The well-dressed supercilious amateur who always made him feel like an underling, a dilettante in every single subject possible, was currently walking up to Marlene's door.

"Your use of expletives does not become you, Anderson. Honestly." The tall man in the long overcoat said, opening the door with a swift turn of the key. Bile rose in Anderson's throat. He'd thought Marlene was a sweet lady; he was looking forward to her affection, and this man possessed the keys to her flat. His blood began to roil. She'd been _his _date, they were going to go back to _his _flat. Of course Sherlock had to have some part in it and fuck up the entire plan.

"Oh, shut up." Anderson spat, folding his arms, his face burning with humiliation. "How do you even know her?" The detective paused, seemed to consider this question for a moment, taking a calculated look at the investigator, nose finally wrinkling in distaste.

"I'm her neighbour." He said, stepping over the threshold. The prospect of telling Anderson about the contract and the relationship was tempting; it was something he had that Anderson didn't; something to show off and rub in his face, but he thought better of it. Anderson hated him enough already, and he had a vague notion that Marlene didn't want it to be known. "And I would suggest leaving," Sherlock continued. "D.I. Lestrade would be horrified if he heard you use such language in front of a woman." Anderson walked back to his car, taking short, snapping steps. Sherlock felt a content smile on his lips then closed the door firmly, and went into her flat.

* * *

He came back to 221B approximately twenty minutes later, Mrs. Hudson was putting on tea while Marlene sat at the kitchen table among the lab equipment, light bouncing off of the glass and casting weird shadows on her face.

"I have pyjamas and something for you to wear tomorrow."

Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows in speculation, sitting primly at the table and folding her hands under her chin, crossing her legs. Marlene smoothed her dress, staring at only the table.

"Thanks." She said flatly, brushing hair behind her ear, attempting to give Sherlock a subtle clue that now was not a good time to bring up the contractual agreement, especially with her skin prickling under the older woman' s scrutinizing gaze.

"Marlene, that is simply no way for a man to treat a lady." Mrs. Hudson finally said, getting up as the kettle began to whistle. Sherlock sat down, moving a few sneakers out of the way. He wanted to clearly see her expression. The tiny kitchen felt cramped, uncomfortable; Marlene hated herself for making this so awkward. Mrs. Hudson was as close to Sherlock's mother as anyone could ever be, he held her in the highest regard."I' m quite sure you could get plenty of men chasing after you-you''re still young yet-and nice men, at that." Spoons climbed against mugs and the tea was placed neatly in front of her. She took a sip, eyes flicking over to Sherlock questioningly. If he noticed, he only grinned into his mug as if the entire situation was endlessly amusing.

"I think I' m off dating for a while, Mrs. Hudson." She said, lilting a little, squirming in her seat and involuntarily drawing her legs under her chair as the memory of Anderson's shoe on her stockinged shin passed her flesh, making it clammy. She shuddered. Mrs. Hudson shot her a look of pure sympathy.

"Pity. I have such a nice nephew." Mrs. Hudson sighed, then took a second look at Marlene. The young woman definitely wasn't telling everything. Socializing at an all-girls' school had taught her the unspoken feminine language; how a girl tied her shoelaces to show that she was "going steady," how she stared down at her tea contentedly. So Marlene was spoken for, but by whom?

"John is a very nice man," Mrs. Hudson countered, smiling at Marlene, who smiled a small smile, twisting her mug of tea. Sherlock remained eerily and unusually silent, calculating.

"Yes. His nature is very caring." She said, for lack of anything else to say. Then: "He's a wonderful friend." Marlene knew exactly what was happening. It should've infuriated her; if it was anyone else it would've, but Marlene felt strangely amused, she liked Mrs. Hudson.

"Well," Mrs. Hudson said, shooting them a warm smile, realising at last. "It's getting late. I should assume you two would want to be alone together." She smiled at the pair and left.

"Mrs. Hudson just made a deduction." Sherlock observed appraisingly, leaning back in his chair. Marlene had risen from her seat and looked back to him from halfway across the living room; his hands were poised under his chin and his head was leaned back, eyes closed. Three months ago she would've thought he was praying; she knew better now. The rational, observant Sherlock Holmes did not believe in a god, he believed in natural laws that governed the universe. She paused, taking a look at him, somehow knowing that his eyes weren't closed but he was peering at her through his eyelashes; trying to look like he didn't care. She turned around again; somewhat hurt, wondering why he was acting like this, then crossed the room to the bookshelf. Still alphabetized, sans photo album. Running her fingertips over the varied selection of spines, she plucked a chemistry text off of the shelf, feeling the satisfying weight of it in her hands.

"Of course she made a deduction. That power isn't exclusive to only you." Marlene said, going up on tiptoe out of habit to peer at the top of the bookcase. The album wasn't there either. He'd hidden it, then. "Most people just think the better of it and keep it to themselves." His head snapped forward and he lowered himself on the chair at her retort, folding his arms and wrinkling his nose. She ran her finger on the top of the bookcase. A thick layer of dust.

For the first time since seeing her, Sherlock focused in on her and began his daily deduction sweep. He found he'd been right; the dress had been a little short on her. It kept riding up and she kept pulling it down. The prospect of the date had soothed her considerably-she put on about two pounds, her hair wasn't falling out as much. The soles of her feet were raw, bloody, the result of running barefoot down the rough sidewalks. No blood had been tracked in so far, but her didn't want to risk it.

"Marlene. Your feet are bleeding." He said, glancing up at her as she approached with the book. Her brow creased in vexation for a moment, taking in what he said, then finally feeling her feet. Like tiny tacks were being pressed into them. She cautiously raised a foot, grabbing the back of a dining chair with a hand, staring at the bottom of her foot with curious revulsion. _Like a child dissecting a frog for the first time. _Sherlock thought, completely at the end of his rope with her.

"Huh. So they are." She said, tracing her fingertips lightly over the torn up stockings stained with gore, then sitting on a chair across from him, daintily raising her feet about three centimeters off the floor as not to get blood on anything, opening up the book. "So I had a chemistry question-"

"For God's sake, Marlene." He said coldly, cutting her off, reaching over and slamming the book shut with a solid thud. She raised her head suddenly, face falling when he finally let down his collected front for a fleeting moment, she could see the anger on his face, mouth falling into a tiny "o" of surprise. "If you'd gone another block we would need to go to the hospital. It's like you went out of your way to step on broken glass." He pinched the bridge of his nose; Marlene felt her stomach flip-flop at the turn this was taking.

"That only happened once." She replied shortly. "And it was in my way."

He got up wordlessly, went across the flat. Marlene refused to follow him with her eyes. For a terrified moment, she thought he'd gone to his room to sulk. The sound of obligated footsteps eased her mind as they came near. Sherlock pulled up a chair, sat directly across from her, first aid kit in hand.

"Take off your stockings." He said, sighing. Crestfallen, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat, smoothing the hem of her dress.

"That's indecent."

"Marlene. Take off the damn stockings." He said, dangerously even. She peeled them away. "This will sting." He continued, offhandly. Her voice came clear and quiet after a few seconds of silence, after a few seconds of dabbing at the cuts on her feet with an alcohol pad.

"You're angry with me." She said simply, flexing her toes, feeling the alcohol burn and sizzle on the raw skin.

"Of course I am." He replied, again in that even tone. Her shoulders sagged. It was so frustrating sometimes; sometimes he was _too_ even.

"Sorry." She said after a while, biting her cheeks when he wrapped her feet in gauze. He obviously cared, then. Marlene's feet clunked to the floor as he let them go.

"Are you going to bed soon?" He asked. She shrugged as he tossed her her pyjamas. Her tea had gone cold and cloudy, and besides, she'd lost her appetite for anything, especially mixed drinks.

"Are you?" It wasn't a curious question, it was a veiled request. An _"I-will-if-you-will."_ He considered it for a moment. He was tired, and it was a "sleep" night.

"Probably. You can use the bed, if you like." He responded, stuffing his hands in his pockets, watching her bandaged feet cross the floor to the bathroom. Back to the book she'd interrupted. He was still so ambivalent about her yet. She was so intelligent but so_ stupid._ Running barefoot on the sidewalk, giving Anderson, of all people, a chance, being willing to sign herself into an agreement with him. His mother wouldn't have approved. His father wouldn't have cared. He wasn't sure if Mycroft respected or despised her.

Her shadow darted to the bedroom in the periphery of his vision, he turned a page in his book. Sherlock was tired, but not tired enough to sleep just yet.

* * *

Marlene stared at the designs on the cream coloured wallpaper for what seemed like hours, flipped over, meeting the brooding stare of Poe from a framed picture on the nightstand. A fellow Poe fan. She smiled, then sat up in bed, absorbing the surroundings. A periodic establishing on the wall opposite the bed, a portrait of Mendeleev stared blankly from the wall next to it, and above the bed was something written in an Asian language. She pondered on asking him what it meant when and if he decided to come to bed, laying her head back down on the pillow. Pictures of the famous dead rather than his own family were rather perturbing._ He probably prefers them over any of his family._ She thought, grimacing. There was a sound of shuffling fabric, Sherlock was getting his pyjamas and changing for bed. Marlene politely buried her face in the pillow until his weight settled onto the other side of the bed.

"I can tell you're awake, Marlene." He said. She took a small intake of breath, then turned on her side to face him.

"What's that above your bed?" She asked.

"Judo certificate," He replied, slurring his speech. He was either exhausted or drunk, and she didn't' t smell any alcohol. His breathing soon went into the familiar, relaxed one-two rhythm of sleep, so she closed her eyes and attempted to follow suit.

For Marlene, sleep was not such an easy task. The tiny details of the room were so distracting-the things she now knew about him. She began to list the elements he made her memorize, in order of the periodic table. _1: Hydrogen. 2: Helium. 3: Lithium. 4: Berylium. 5: Boron. 6: Carbon. _

Marlene felt arms wrap around her, drawing her close, immersing her in his scent; he smelled like old books and violin rosin and faintly of sweat and very faintly of harmless laboratory chemicals. _7:Nitrogen8:Oxygen9:Flourine10:Neon- _

Self-disappointment and panic flooded through her, she felt an urge to flee, to untangle herself from him and never come back. Testing his strength, she pulled away, but to no avail, he only gripped tighter and in response pulled her even closer. Marlene now knew how a children's rag doll must feel, but also detected dizziness, her mouth going dry.

_Stop it. Stop it right now. You're in the arms of easily the most brilliant man on the continent. You're safe, finally. _She told herself, trying to brush off the vertigo as a mere headrush. _The most brilliant man on the continent...who apparently has a penchant for cuddling._ Consciousness fell into the depths of sleep; her arms reached out, as always, and finally made contact.


	20. Chapter 20

**30 reviews?! YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Keep them coming. c: Special thanks to Wholockian. **

* * *

John walked into the flat around midnight, feeling almost tipsy. One of his buddies that been in his company was at the pub; they had a good reminisce, stories were exchanged and shots were downed. Stumbling across the floor of the living room, he took a drunken pause. Something wasn't quite right, there was a strange absence about the flat. He placed it about a minute later: there was no tall, dark figure swirling liquids in beakers or pensively peering through a microscope in the kitchen; no leafy sounds of book pages turning, no strains of violin music with perfect pitch and rhythm.

Sherlock's bedroom door was shut. Probably sleeping.

Still, it wouldn't hurt just to check...

John walked carefully over to the door, noiselessly turning the knob and pushing it open. The creak of unoiled hinges sounded ten times louder than it should've. He poked his head into the room carefully. The large sleigh bed was occupied by two.

Alcohol and faint jealousy fueling curiosity, he took soft steps to the bed. Of course. Sherlock and Marlene were entwined in each other's arms, sleeping soundly as stone. Oddly enough, (or not, considering), they were both fully dressed as far as he could see, but clung with an eerie adhesion that was not quite devotion as of yet. _Their relationship could best be described, _John mused, _as parasitic but somehow symbiotic. Like they feed off one another; vampiric, almost. _He concluded, feeling that Sherlock would have been proud of his extensive vocabulary, smiling as he fumbled up the stairs to his room.

* * *

When Sherlock awoke, he found that his arms felt strangely occupied, and that a steady drizzle outdoors was rhythmically falling, lulling him back to sleep. He scrunched his eyes shut, once, twice, blinked rapidly, finally looking through squinted eyes at the top of Marlene's head, which rested just below his eyes; her arms were thrown over him haphazardly, his arms were around her in a snug embrace. Warmth seeped into his chest; sleeping alone was so cold, and it was pleasant to reach out and touch something, to hold someone, be held by someone. He pressed her closed, lips making soft contact with her forehead, and dormant gladness began to rise in his chest. Somehow, he was pleased that she was in for the day with him and not waking up hungover and used in Anderson's bed, searching for clothes and money to get cab fare home. She stirred a bit in bed, arms moving slowly, hands resting at the back of his head, feeling his hair, gently pushing her fingers through it. Sighing, her eyes opened slowly, eyelashes tickling his jaw.

"Good morning," He said quietly, observing her rituals upon waking. First, she cleared her throat, scratched her eyes a bit, then stretched out.

"Morning," She replied, hand falling from its stretched-out position to back over him, grazing a shoulder blade, nuzzling her nose into his neck, pressing her lips to it. She'd been wanting to do that forever, and now seemed so opportune. It was nice, damn nice, to wake up in someone's arms after a terrible night. The rain poured steadily down outside, and he felt her turn on her side, her tense back and shoulders on his chest. Although her expression was serene the few times he'd seen it, her body remained as if it were made of high-tension wire. Perhaps a result of the disastrous date-gone-wrong.

"Tense. Relax a bit, Marlene." He sighed, moving his hands to her shoulders, applying slight pressure, then lowering his thumbs and moving them in circular motions. It was just as he'd suspected: riddled with knots in the muscle. Her left shoulder began to twitch and she arched her back in what he presumed to be pain. He stopped abruptly, and fell into him again, wanting the warmth on her back.

"That hurt." She whined as his arms fell over her. Beautiful, pale, with blue rope-like veins, but so many scarred-over track marks. Her fingernails hesitantly brushed over them; Sherlock said nothing but buried his face in the slope between her neck and shoulder. White light streamed in through a gap in the curtains; the constant pitter-patter of rain was the only thing that made this seem like reality and not one of her dreams.

"Like you've never done drugs," He said, quietly into her neck. "I can make a list: Alprazolam, Diazepam-"

"I've never been hooked on Valium, thank you," Marlene said curtly, slightly offended but interested in what he was saying. He was so intelligent; somehow, it only made him more attractive. _What is that called? _She thought, mind searching for the correct word, taking a hiatus from the current situation. _Sapio-sexuality. _Marlene smiled at her small triumph, then quickly added: "I only had to take it during college. University, though-"

"Let me guess. Desipramine, Benzodiapine, and the like." He responded, smirking on her shoulder. Somehow, feeling his expressions on her body gave her a subtle yet intoxicating chill that she found she really enjoyed. Sleeping with him was so lovely, despite his odd idea of morning conversation.

"No." She said, short and clipped. His smile fell; she could feel the change on her skin. "They said I was fine." Then, after a cold, awkward moment, she turned back toward him, closing her eyes. "I'm tired. Let's go back to sleep."

* * *

About an hour later, John walked into the room, arms folded in front of his chest, frowning.

"Are you two getting up? It's nearly noon." He said, raising his voice more than usual, leaning on the chest of drawers. Marlene stirred, Sherlock opened one eye and glowered at the intruder. What did John care? It wasn't like he went into John's room when he brought a lady back to the flat, although that was rare.

"It's not like I have a case, John. Now go away. I'm busy."

John internally winced at the detective's harshness, but stayed, taking in the entire scene. _Busy. Busy making a love nest. _John thought sourly. A female. In Sherlock's bed. It was nearly surreal.

"Why's she in here?" He finally asked. The writer seemed nice, but he doubted her intentions. No one got that close to Sherlock, it seemed, without insidious reason. Irene's quick absence and departure had completely destroyed him; he was heartbroken for months, it'd changed him somehow. He wasn't ready to let Sherlock get his heart broken again. The doctor needed the detective, and vice versa; there wasn't room for another. Needless to say, he had legitimate reason for suspicion.

"Don't be so inquisitive, John. She had a difficult night." Sherlock said, pulling the woman closer at the mention of it. John raised his eyebrows in question; even though Sherlock didn't see it, he could infer, and continued. "A date ended poorly. Of course, I don't see how an outing with Anderson could-"

"God! Anderson? Really?" John asked, with curious repulsion. "Imagine what he would've done to her if he'd gotten enough drinks down her." Sherlock sat up in bed and glared at the doctor. John smirked, now enjoying antagonizing the detective. "I mean, think, he probably would've been so selfish and not even appreciated-"

"That's enough, John, thank you." He replied, violently throwing himself down and pulling blankets over his and Marlene's heads. John shook his head, leaving the room, and returned to his newspaper.

* * *

Marlene swung her legs over the side of the bed; opened up the curtains. It was still raining steadily. She sighed. No outside searches for inspiration, then. Sherlock sat up, feeling a chill set in. The flat was always a bit cold during autumn, and without the other body in his bed it felt less complete and more brisk.

"Marlene," He ordered. "Get back into bed." She ground her teeth at his imperiousness, looking at him through her disheveled hair defiantly. _God. Like a child and a disobedient puppy. _She thought, patting her hair down so that it looked halfway decent.

"Sherlock, it's past noon." She replied, finding clothes he'd strewn on the floor, picking them up and shaking them out, folding them. "Too late in the day to stay in bed."

"It shouldn't make much of a difference then," he argued, pulling the covers over himself once more, then grumbling: "I'm _tired._" _  
_

"When did you last sleep?" She asked, walking over, sitting on the empty side of the bed. Seizing opportunity, he grabbed her midsection, dragging her to him; she had to stifle a shriek at his forwardness.

"Four days ago."

"Jesus, Sherlock." She said in a gust of air, feeling his fingers touch small pieces of her hair, and knew exactly what was happening: he was bored, and tired, and cold. "Sometimes I wonder why I even care."

"Caring is a disadvantage," He mused, running fingers over the back of her neck, her shoulders.

"Then you're the most disadvantaged of all." She responded without missing a beat, and he stopped touching her. She turned over; his expression had gone stony and still. Before he could slap her, and before she could think to do anything else, she kissed him.


	21. Chapter 21

**Thanks for the continued support everyone! I love all your response. c:**

* * *

Sherlock narrowed still-open eyes. For the first time in a while, his thoughts came to a dead stop, all he could comprehend was within the moment, the current situation. _Twenty-seven years old. Nervous condition. Sweet when kisses. Norwegian. _Her lips pressed onto his with trademark delicate force. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or despised her for halting his mind; however, he did admire her tactic, going for the completely unexpected, and it was signifying a difference in their interactions. _It's obvious that she's comfortable with me now, _he thought. She turned a small peck on the lips into a full production, complete with hair touching and slight tongue and lip biting. _Quite comfortable. _Sherlock, re-gaining his mind and senses, started to fully observe again, deftly disguising taking her pulse as a tender touch on the neck. Marlene squirmed away, pulling his hand to her hip and holding it there. _Damn it, the femme fatale tactic. _He wanted to know, but she was making it so _difficult_ with her method of distraction; it was like fighting a battle uphill, and his body was taking over, leaning into her, kissing back, drawing away and returning.

"Clever," He said appraisingly, in between the contact of their bodies, drawing back from another pounce, holding her shoulders and getting a perverse enjoyment from the wanting look on her face, then mentally reprimanding himself for it. "I've taught you well. Perhaps lessons aren't a total exercise in futility." She half-smiled, dragging him into a kneeling position, straddling his lap, her head on his shoulder.

"You do care," She said on his cheek, went back to his lips, kissing his cupid's bow, stopping abruptly. "It's so _obvious._" Marlene enjoyed this odd battle of wits she's started, his mouth dragging down her neck as she would poke her head upward to speak.

"Shut up, Marlene," He said into her neck, and she drew back momentarily, looking at him in utter disapproval. He looked up as if he'd done nothing wrong. She always wasn't sure if he needed a good kiss or slap.

"_Rude. _Back to what I was saying: You would do absolutely anything for John," Another moment of him trying to shut her up with his mouth, her trying to make him listen with hers. "And my feet didn't spontaneously bandage themselves."

"Marlene, you're spoiling the moment. Which you began, may I remind you." He interjected, pulling her back down to his level, sensing that she liked the small power trip. _Human nature. She probably doesn't get to experience this feeling much. _He concluded, hands supporting her sides teeth gently clamping her lower lip, hand traveling down to her wrist. She freely let him take her pulse this time. _Escalated pulse rate-even she can't believe she's doing this. _A step further wouldn't have been bad, he mused, it hadn't been like this since a few drunken incidents in university that he didn't particularly enjoy or remember. Hands rushed through hair, made subtle movements on backs-

"Sherlock, Lestrade's here for-" The sound of the door swinging open heralded John and the D.I.'s entrance. The two on the bed looked candidly to the doorway in unison. "For the love of God," John mumbled, sighing in disgust, fumbling, the usual sounds of bleak embarrassment. "So sorry, Lestrade."

Marlene's eyes had widened and Sherlock did his best to shield her from the glances they were getting. She would've thanked him under different circumstances, but her spirit was suddenly getting ripped prematurely out through her eyes again. Everything looked like it was from a Dali painting; alien and distorted and morphed and threatening. Her chest heaved up and down heavily. This seemed like a cruel trap that a hunter would lay out for its prey, that everything was going to be fine, and then, the report of a firearm, the twang of a bow.

"Better snap a picture." The older man with graying hair said, a wayward grin veering toward the side of his face. "The boys down at the Yard won't ever believe this. How much did you have to pay her?"

"Nothing, thank you." Sherlock retorted, seething, glaring up at the D.I. "She rather likes my company." Marlene nodded, for lack of anything else to do, then felt him squirm underneath her and moved off of him. Sherlock rose, handing her a fistful of blankets, stretched, threw on his blue dressing gown. Marlene envied the way he was able to ignore the two other men in the room, whose stares made her skin crawl with agitation and worry. "Come out when you feel like it, Marlene. There's a red dressing gown on the chair, use that one." He exited the room, closing the door solidly behind him. Marlene fell back into the bed, down but not quite defeated yet, balling the covers up in her fists, bringing them to her nose. They still retained his smell, and she was grateful, it grounded her, helped her come back down to earth; that musk of antique books and tang of violin rosin accompanied by the odor of sweat, hard to describe, but not overpowering. Her breaths were regulating themselves again, but she felt a certain loneliness without him next to her. As always when cooling down from an attack, there was this strange settling, as if she'd lassoed her mind like an unruly calf and brought it back to her, letting her soul re- collect itself and organize before sinking back into her chest. The prickliness was slowly leaving, she put her bandaged feet onto the floor, cold seeping through the gauze like ink, and carefully stepped over to the chair, feeling the damage. _Oh Jesus fuck. I actually did step on the glass more than once. _She winced, shifting her weight, then reached for the dressing gown, running her hand over the dressing gown, the silky texture feeling eerily similar to his hair, and she pulled it on to cover her bare arms. It was a little big on her, but it was warm and it smelled like him, so she tied the belt around her waist. Needy fingers wove the silk in between the spaces as she turned the knob quietly, slowly opening the door just a crack. The man with the salt- and- pepper hair, Lestrade, was sitting at the table across from Sherlock, John resting with the small of his back in the corner where two adjacent counters met. A trace of annoyance passed his face; Marlene envisioned the gaining and chipped Formica pulling at the back if his sweater. However, his arms remained folded contemplatively across his chest.

"...And that was good work in Baskerville, best I've seen in...well, the best I've ever seen." Lestrade was putting all of his weight toward the back of the chair, leaning on only two of the legs. Sherlock smugly smiled.

"I know," He replied with shameless arrogance, fingers of his left hand drumming out the rhythm to Bach's Double Concerto on the table top. John sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. It was truly like living with a teenager who had an attitude problem. The D.I. lowered his chair slowly back down on all four legs, placed his hands on the table.

"Well, Sherlock, what I'm trying to say is..." Lestrade trailed off slowly, and Sherlock crinkled his nose, rolled his eyes; a horse trying to rid itself of a particularly annoying gnat. _His impatient look, _Marlene thought, grasping the doorjamb with a jittery hand.

"Stop wasting your time. What was it, a slow day for crime down at the Yard? You want to offer me a full-time position, and the answer to that will be the same as any other time you've asked me: _No." _Sherlock grinned at the D.I. with sardonic charm, pleased at his own actions. She could hear Lestrade gasp, and John again shook his head, completely exhausted by his flatmate's superciliousness and pompous manner.

Marlene took her opportunity, the gap in conversation, yawning and stretching as she finally came out of hiding.

"Nice of you to join us," Sherlock said, mouth falling into its natural position-not quite a frown, but a very judging expression, as if he was silently picking someone apart as he stared at them. "This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Lestrade, you may know Marlene, my...protegee." Marlene stopped for a moment, shooting him a look over her back for thrusting her into such a social situation as she poured water into an electric kettle. At times, his rudeness never ceased to amaze her. He didn't even have tea ready.

_Protegee? _Lestrade thought, eyes wandering from the blonde to Sherlock, trying to conceal a snicker. _What things he must be teaching her._

__"Hello, Detective Inspector. Could I interest you in some _tea_?" She said very pointedly, more at Sherlock than at Lestrade. Sherlock gave her a choleric look. Tea wasn't important to him; being nice wasn't important to him. She plugged the kettle in, then smoothed the robe over the backs of her thighs before sitting. Lestrade leaned back in his chair, running his tongue over his teeth in a closed mouth in contemplation.

"I'm fine, thanks. You certainly look familiar. Surname?" He asked. _Fucking Sherlock why does he have to fucking do this to me, _Marlene thought, managing a civil smile. This was the worst part of being an author.

"Tate." She replied, then: "Did the newspaper come today, Sherlock?" Sherlock shrugged; if he knew, he obviously didn't care.

"You're kidding," The D.I. said, smiling. "I knew I'd seen you on a book jacket or two. I've read at least three of your books. They're pretty accurate, from the crime scenes to the process. How'd you manage that?" Marlene shrugged.

"Research, I suppose." She said, taking in the light in Lestrade's eyes.

"So, are you doing more research then? You're free to come up to the Yard any time, as long as you're unobtrusive and can keep quiet enough. We have a few...interesting officers. But, I think you'll get the best ideas here." He said, wondering if the sentence was out of his place the moment it popped out of his mouth. Marlene paused for a moment, crossing her arms, staring out the window, lost in thought. Lestrade wondered if she was thinking up a new book. The click of the kettle drew her back to reality and she blinked a few times.

"Oh, that's great of you to offer." She said, nodding. "Are you sure you wouldn't like anything?" John was glaring at the back of her head and Sherlock was acting as if the entire encounter was all according to some sort of plan of his. That was something Lestrade had always admired in him, he could adapt to new situations very quickly. _Like being in a relationship with a relatively well-known author. Or his "protegee." _He thought, eyes passing from the consulting detective to the novelist once more.

"I'd love to, but I have get back to the Yard. Sherlock, hope to see you soon; you too, John. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Tate." Marlene nodded with a slight smile, feeling faint, still reeling with mortification. The door swung open and closed, and a tense, angry silence overtook the flat.

John took one look at them both, disgusted. _I don't think he plans on intentionally forgetting me. I won't let him though. That already happened once, that whore who broke his heart. I won't let him completely abandon me. _It was difficult to decode, these strange and stupid emotions; Marlene had nearly no one, but neither did John, without Sherlock. As of now, he couldn't bear to look at them after the embarrassing display: two of his friends, locked together, ignoring him. And in front of _Lestrade_ no less. John was Sherlock's best friend, and Sherlock didn't date.

What a mess. What an awful, awful mess.

John stormed over to the coat rack, wrenched his coat off of the peg, threw it onto his body, swinging the door open roughly.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock called, oddly indignant, making John hesitate.

"Out!" John yelled, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

**Don't forget to leave a review. They always make me smile. C:**


	22. Chapter 22

"Sherlock," Marlene began, rising, taking off the red dressing gown, folding the garment neatly and placing it on the coffee table. "I'd better go. I'm sorry." She walked out of the flat; he could tell something was weighing on her mind. It was in the way she hung her head, the spacing of stride and heaviness of footsteps, how she didn't bother to grab her coat before leaving. Sherlock sat at the table for a moment, the evidence sinking from his mind to his stomach. He'd been completely abandoned in a silent flat, his closest friend exploding at him and Marlene (he couldn't quite classify their relationship yet) had just up and left without so much as a verbal explanation. _She knew. She knew I'd be able to tell what was wrong. _But for the life of him, he couldn't figure it out. It wasn't the physical closeness, it was something else completely, he knew that much, and that one little tidbit of information pestered the back of his mind relentlessly. He eventually stamped over to his room, slamming the door so hard that a small mirror fell off the wall and cracked. Damn everything. Damn this room, damn the clothes he was pulling fiercely off of the hangers, damn Marlene for leaving him and damn John for scaring her off.

"It doesn't matter." He muttered, fingertips easily sliding shirt buttons into place. "Caring is a disadvantage, anyway."

* * *

When John returned Marlene was gone, probably back to her flat, and Sherlock was sulking in his makeshift lab. Good. John would rather have a sulking Sherlock than a heartbroken one.

* * *

Marlene' s phone vibrated on the side table; she looked up from her laptop, the sound of clicking keys going to a dead stop. Thick silence was ringing in her eardrums. She picked the phone up, opened the text.

**Come back**.

**- SH**

She felt her eyes roll in their sockets. Such a child sometimes. All she was was a toy to him, something to occupy him when he was bored, he could throw her away or replace her when he was done. Marlene knew this, it was so _obvious_ (his favourite word), and it cut to the core. And now, John despised her too. Beautiful.

**No. I don' t want to ruin your relationship with John. **

It was a shit excuse, but valid, and hell of a lot easier to explain than what she was actually feeling- exploited, used. The man was certainly...unique, but easily bored. Like the rest of them. Although she didn't think he'd be quite prone to treating her like that, Marlene was used to being a throwaway. Men got bored of her easily or-**  
**

_"I'm just so goddamn tired of your everlasting shit, Marlene."_

short with her or-

_"You don't have to have a fit over what fucking font to use on the invites, you crazy bitch." _

annoyed with her tendencies. It was hard to accept, damn, it was hell to accept after sleeping in that bed with him, after feeling the warm feathers of his breath on her neck, but inevitable. It was just How Things Were. Her phone buzzed again.

**John doesn't care. John is John, and what we have is on one of his business, no matter how much he wants it to be or thinks it is. What's the real reason? **

** - SH**

Marlene bit her lip while fingers flew on keys and words appeared on the screen of the cellular.

**I should have recognized thing for what they were. People get tired of me, they get annoyed and short with me easily. I'm just something for when you're bored, instead of a cigarette or shot of heroin. I'm sorry it got that far and I should've known better. Thank you for all you've done for me. **

Marlene leaned back into her sofa, thumb depressing the "send" button, an ape- sized lump forming in the back of her throat, feeling tears pool and swim at the inner corners of her eyes. The mobile phone buzzed in her hand.

**You most certainly are NOT a substitute for opiates. Please. If I wanted drugs, I could get them easily enough. What gave you this impression?**

** - SH**

** That's how things usually happen. **

**I would not define anything we do as usual. Come back. I have a brain I need help dissecting. **

** - SH**

Marlene smiled down at her phone and thumbed away a tear.

**Be there in a tick. **

* * *

John internally groaned as Marlene walked into their flat again. Sherlock was breaking out a fresh brain from the refrigerator. _God. Those odd little lessons again. Christ. They' ll be practically having sex on the table- brain or not. _

To his surprise, they both behaved themselves, acting purely scientific about the entire situation; all he saw was a contained smile from Sherlock as he observed her prodding the lump of grey matter.

There was a knock at the door. John rose and opened it to reveal Mrs. Hudson.

"Sherlock, I found something that might be yours in the downstairs refrigerator." She said primly, straightening her dress. "Oh, hello Marlene, everything alright dear?" She smiled at they girl. So Marlene had spent the night. The elderly woman fought to keep down a smirk.

"Get it for me," He said, distracted, taking a small slice of brain and placing it carefully onto a glass slide, painstakingly putting a slide cover on the specimen.

"I'm not touching it. It's disgusting, and I'm not your housekeeper!" She shot back, having enough of his attitude and sullen temper, her tiny little heels sounding like men's stomping footsteps as she stormed down the stairs.

"You'd better go, Sherlock. She sounds pretty angry." John commented, turning a newspaper page that he had read five times already. Besides, John needed to talk to Marlene. Privately. There were...well, there were rules if she wanted to be with Sherlock. There were things she could and could not do. _Tough, but that's life. _Sherlock shook his head before leaving.

"Finish this sample, please, Marlene." He said, stalking out of the flat and down the stairs. Finally. John and Marlene were alone. He could finally speak to her. And there was quite a bit he intended to talk to her about.

"So," John said, putting the paper down with a small swishing sound and leaning back in his chair. "I assume you and Sherlock have decided to pursue a relationship. Just now, or was it talked about beforehand and then put into play?"

Was that bitterness Marlene detected in John's voice? Marlene winced at the unavoidable confrontation. _What would Sherlock do?_ She asked herself, and the way the answer came into her mind immediately was worrisome yet helpful. _Be as offhand about it as possible. _

"Oh, I don't think either of those are quite the right answer," She responded in a peculiar little droll way, a tone he'd never heard from her before: Sherlock's way of speaking when he was occupied with something he found more interesting than the current speaker. "We've been in a contractually obligated one for about two weeks now."

_"What?"_

"You heard me," She replied, putting the slide on the microscope, turning the small light on, spinning a few dials to focus it, and writing something down-in her meticulously neat handwriting, no doubt- on a notepad. One he often saw Sherlock thumbing through, smiling lightly when he thought John wasn't watching. Now he knew why: he was deducing her handwriting, finding the similarities between loops and crossed t's and her personality. John shook his head in disbelief, shot up from his chair, and started to pace.

"No. Sherlock wouldn't keep something like that from me. He tells me everything. I know everything about him." John muttered. Marlene shot him a fault-finding glance from her station at the microscope.

"Maybe he just thought it wasn't any of your business." She said simply, cocking her head at him before returning back to her fervent note-taking. John stared at her, floored, for about a full minute before striding over to her, grabbing her by the collar, and pulling her across the table by her neck.

"Listen to me, you pretentious little bitch. I was here when he had nothing. I've seen him in love, although he never admitted it, and I've seen his heart shatter. Now **_pay_ _attention_**_:_ Don't you do it. Don't you **_fucking_ _dare_**break his heart again. I will gut you like a fucking fish. I don't think you understand, Marlene. I've killed people before. Do you think I liked the constant violin composing, and his blank stare when I asked him if he needed something and I knew I couldn't give or do anything for him? Do you think I liked pretending not to know when he was crying, although I _**damn well** _knew he was? _**Do you think**_I liked the danger nights? Don't. You. Fucking. Dare." He shook her to punctuate each word, seeing her little blonde hairs get mussed and tousled by the small yet sharp movements and feeling prominent collarbones crash against his knuckles was too sickeningly satisfying. Something red-hot and shameful, some terrible yet exhilarating delight was welling up inside of him, as always when he did something that he knew he shouldn't have been doing. He let go of her shirt collar, pushing her back toward the refrigerator, setting her off-balance, sailing into the appliance. She crumpled pitifully to the floor before getting up, dusting off and racing out of the flat, pushing past Sherlock, who was carrying plastic bags full of severed hands, as flew down the stairs and made sure to bolt the door of her flat.

* * *

**Hi faithful readers! **

**I'll begin by saying sorry for the late update. I know it's been a while, but I was in a theatre production at my school and hell week truly lived up to its name. I apologize for any quality issues this may have.**

**Thank you ever so much for your continued readership. c:**


	23. Chapter 23

**Thank you so much for your reviews and readership once again. I really do like putting out content that others enjoy. You are some of the most fantastic people I've encountered and your reviews and follows brighten my day. **

* * *

Marlene hadn't come out of her flat in two full days.

_Good,_ John thought, turning on the television complacently. Sherlock walked in, rain-drenched, back from the morgue, a frown chiseling the corners of his mouth downward. He shook out his coat, water droplets spraying every which way, and hung it on the hook, taking off his scarf. John could see the extent of the troubled expression on his face once he sat silently in the armchair.

"You said something to her didn't you?" Understatement of the century. Sherlock had heard John yelling, had heard the muffled sound of fists on flesh, the thump of Marlene's body as it smashed to the floor. He steepled his fingers and placed them to his mouth in contemplation. John did care for him, and Marlene did too. John was having a difficult time accepting this apparently, and things became physical. Sherlock began to piece the scene together in his head. John had become infuriated-she probably wasn't completely innocent in the situation-and he did the only thing an army man could think to when being threatened: fight, as opposed to Marlene's reaction of flight. But no, this was different, Marlene wasn't a soldier, she was a woman with panic disorder, and he had no doubt that she was physically weaker than John.

John sat the remote down slowly on the arm of his chair, turning to his friend. The detective was not amused as usual when questioning the doctor; he wore a placid mask, but seeds of fury easily bloomed into flowers of rage. It came through in his tone, his posture, the sparks in his eyes.

"No-"

"You're a terrible liar, John." Sherlock cut him off coldly, sounding strangely disappointed. "You grabbed her _by the throat_-"

"I did not!" John protested, his cheeks flushing, raising his brows, all signs that he was lying through his teeth, in wonder at Sherlock's power of deduction. That, or he had gotten it out of her somehow.

"Don't lie, John! I saw the lint of her shirt under your nails and the bruises on her collarbones." John drooped in his chair. Sherlock was in a full rage now, getting up pacing. All John could do was hold his head in his hands, guilty as charged. It was always Sherlock, he always knew what people had done, good or bad, how did he think he was ever going to explain his way out of this one? "You threw her on the ground. A _woman_, John, not a fellow soldier, not a criminal. A woman with a _panic disorder. _And you screamed at her and threw her into a refrigerator. Honestly. I never wanted to think you would do that." Sherlock got his coat, scarf, put them on. "How will you even look at your own mother or sister in the eye?"

And with that, his friend was gone, catapulting himself out through the door on long legs.

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson looked up from her knitting; another sweater for John for Christmas. It was Sherlock, swishing coat, tousled hair, pale face, and all.

"Yes, dear?" She asked, unraveling more yarn. Knit one, yarn through, put stitches on the cable needle, purl one, knit one, purl one. There. Half a cable done. Sherlock was hesitating, sat down at the oak table in the dining area.

"What do women like?" He asked, spinning his phone on the table, stopping it with his hand just before it fell off the side. The knitting needles stopped clicking, Mrs. Hudson stifled giggles, rising from her seat and putting on the kettle. It was going to be a long talk. She had a feeling that something was bothering him, and now she knew.

"Well, that's a very general question dear," She stated, puttering around in the kitchen. "It depends on which woman and how bad your mistake was." The old woman crossed over to the window, grey light bathing her face, seeing a a young couple walk down the street. A memory of a smile momentarily passed her face. "So, which woman, and what happened?"

"Mrs. Hudson. You aren't stupid. You know who it is." He responded, looking up at her, noticing her wistful contemplation humorlessly, and flipped his phone in the air. Anyone else would've thought he wasn't paying attention; Mrs. Hudson knew better. He did these small things, had these small habits that distracted him, tore him off the brink of obsession.

"Well, I think Marlene would probably be a flowers type of girl. Although some sweets would probably do her good. She's been getting awfully thin lately." Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms; a chill had come over the room despite the tiny electric heater and hissing radiator. "What happened?"

"She and John aren't getting along." Sherlock said, stopping the phone-flipping abruptly, putting it into his pocket. Yet another understatement. Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows expectantly as she poured him a cup of tea. "They had a fight. He threw her into the refrigerator."

"No!" Mrs. Hudson cried in shock. "I never would've taken him for the type. John is such a sweet man." John was too soft for a woman-beater, Mrs. Hudson reasoned; he was nothing like the last tenant, the one even before Sherlock, who'd hit his wife so hard she lost her baby. When Mrs. Hudson had arrived home the woman was clawing her way to the basement flat in a last-ditch effort to hide, cradling her stomach and vomiting blood. The police were called and he was arrested, that nice Gregory Lestrade, who was just a Sergeant then, had taken him away. The woman, Melinda, was placed in a shelter and given proper medical care. No. John wasn't like that other man at all. Mrs. Hudson remembered the incident with a shudder, the tea rippling in the mug.

"Well, it was just a one-time thing," Sherlock said. "It was quite evident that John felt guilty, even as he did it. To be completely honest, Mrs. Hudson, he isn't quite used to me dividing my attention between two people."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, playing with the gold chain draped on her wrinkled neck, staring absently into space.

"I think some tea roses will do nicely."

* * *

Sherlock reached a gloved hand out and rapped on the door to 221C. The television was on. Strange. She hadn't been writing all that much, then, either she was deeply disturbed by the entire incident or seriously injured her fingers. Either option was horrible. His hand writhed nervously on the bouquet of tea roses, cellophane wrapper crinkling while the background noise of the television blabbed on in the flat.

* * *

Marlene barley moved on the couch; these two days had been some of the most difficult since her first few days at Uni. As soon as she came into her flat she had a small breakdown, falling at her doormat in a foetal position, feeling the scratch of rough fibers against her side and relishing the hurt. It kept her grounded; it was a reminder that she was in fact not dreaming and had to eventually get her shit together.

After an hour of ceaseless hiccup-sobbing, she felt fine. At least, she told herself she did. Hearing John and Sherlock talking upstairs, hearing their voices, made it worse, no matter how much she tried to play it off as fine. _Come on. At least pretend not to care. You've got to keep it together, if not for Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson's sake, for your own. _She went over to the counter, tried to make a cup of tea. Her hands were quaking as if she was outside in sub-zero temperatures; the half-filled kettle dropped on the floor as a rush of blood swiftly flooded then drained from her brain, salty saliva coated her entire mouth.

_Oh, Christ. _

Marlene ran to the bathroom, knocking down papers, magazines, knickknacks off of tables and shelves as she barreled through them. She fell to her knees in front of the toilet and flipped the lid up just in time. Hot vomit ripped at her esophagus as it was violently expelled from her stomach, splashing down into the water.

The vomiting had stopped when she was sixteen, when the attacks began to get lessen slightly in severity. Now that little bonus was back too. Wonderful.

Marlene managed to grasp the flushed and depress it, ridding herself of the bitter scent and unsightly lump of sick in the toilet before another roll of nausea overtook her stomach. She grasped the sides of the toilet, letting heat and shame pour from her open mouth with such force it came out through her nostrils. There was breakfast. Another quick flush. Nothing but water and sour yellow bile.

_Like a dog returneth to its spew, _Marlene thought, ashamed, flushing the toilet again. That lovely gem had been the product of a Sunday school lesson her father sat in on and took her out of early. She's always hated it as a child, praying and kneeling until her knees hurt. Her knees. They were at their breaking point; Marlene collapsed to the bathroom floor and awoke there early the next morning, still nauseous and now sporting a sore throat as well as a clogged nose. Her entire body hurt upon trying to get up, and she stayed on the bathroom floor for nearly an hour, then crawled to the settee, covering herself with a blanket and turning on the telly.

Now, about a day later and feeling a trifle better but still awful, she looked over at the now-ominous door.

"Come in," She called, getting up, feeling a deep ache in every muscle, stabilizing herself on the side table nearest the sofa. And now a migraine was starting.

_Perfect. _She thought, somewhat deliriously, waiting for the door to open with such apprehension that another sudden wave of nausea hit. _Today will be absolutely fucking perfect. _

* * *

Sherlock turned the doorknob slowly, pushing the door open, and it felt weirdly heavy to him. He concluded that the last thing she'd want to do was see him and had questioned himself many times as to why he was in fact standing at her doorstep, but realised: She wasn't upset with him, she was probably upset with the circumstances.

The first scene he was confronted with was Marlene hunched over her kitchen sink, wretching. Sherlock dropped the roses on the floor, landing with a tiny cellophane-crackling thud half-in and half-out of the flat, and rushed over to her, placing a concerned hand on her back and waiting for the vomiting to subside. Marlene wiped her mouth with a bare arm and ran the tap for a few minutes, got a glass, and filled then drank.

"Marlene, you're sick." Sherlock said quietly, keeping his hand between her shoulder blades. She leaned heavily on the edge of the sink, hanging her head. She looked like a walking corpse: skin waxy and clammy with sweat, face ashen, the smell of vomit rolling off of her in a cloud, huge dark circles giving her a hollow look. Influenza, a seasonal strain.

"No I'm not. I'm overreacting," She corrected, gritting her teeth, looking up at him from her hunched place. She thought she saw his eyes soften for a moment, but decided that it was her muddled mind just taking advantage of her weakened state.

"Yes, you are." He argued, picking off a glove and pocketing it, placing a bare hand on her forehead. Marlene closed her eyes, his hand feeling strangely cool, savoring the touch. "Just as I suspected. A fever. Your face is peaked, and you _reek_ of vomit." He walked her over to the bathroom, shut the door behind them. She was in a heady daze, everything felt like it was underwater, unsure of her surroundings due to rapid movement. His arm shot out next to her and turned the faucet to the shower, doing everything at a million miles per hour, and she felt like a frond of seaweed, just _going with it, man. _The water, still warming, sprayed reliably onto the tile shower floor and each tiny noise pounded thumbtacks behind her eyes. Sherlock pulled her t-shirt over her head, deliberately looking away.

"Don't patronize me," She said, trying to sound vicious despite her raspy throat and stuffed nose, trying to beat him away with weak arms and fists that just wouldn't ball up or cooperate, trying to match the speed of his dodges. His hands moved to her pants, swiftly unbuttoning them and shucking them off, and she stepped out of them, slightly delirious with fever.

"Why are you taking my clothes off?" She whined like a petulant child, crossing her arms and legs, skin now chilled, but he felt the burning of bare shoulders as he shoved her into the shower and slid the door closed. Hot water hit her skin and she sighed gratefully, beginning to feel less dizzy and more cognizant in the steam and soap bubbles. The queasiness had momentarily quelled and the steam was helping her nose and throat, but each muscle screamed in agony. She turned the water off, and the door screeched on its sliders.

Sherlock, chucking a towel at her.

Sherlock.

_Goddamn it. He's seen me naked. _If she was healthy, she would've blushed violently. _And at the perfect time, I'm looking ever so sexy. _Her naturally sarcastic mind gave her reason to conceal a grin and feel a little better, at least.

"You're so _ill, _Marlene." Sherlock said, perched on the closed toilet seat. She dropped her chin toward him, glad he was looking politely the other way, and wrapped herself in the towel.

"I know," She replied, shaking out her hair, wringing out the tiny sections. _Like at St. Bart's,_ He thought, recalling the day when they'd attempted to fool Molly Hooper, caught between nostalgia and remembering his mood: slightly miffed that she'd blown their cover. "You didn't have to undress me," She continued, mouth in tight line. "I could have done it myself." Anger? He detected some, nostrils flaring in disgrace. Plenty of women would've been thrilled at the prospect. _Though she's very stubborn,_ He reminded himself.

"Please. I've read enough anatomy books to know what the female form looks like, you needn't be embarrassed." He mused. She looked at him in the corner of the mirror and their eyes met; she managed a grin. More nausea, severe enough to nearly push her to her knees.

"I don't feel good," She said miserably, suddenly five again, just wanting her bed and a kiss on the head from her mum or dad. He got up and started out of the bathroom. _No, stay. _She mentally whined.

"Well," He began, not sure where to start. _She obviously wants me to stay- creating sympathy for herself. Not that I exactly mind staying, either. _"I'll leave you to get dressed. I recall seeing a volume of Poe on your bookshelf, yes? Bring it to me and I'll read it to you."


	24. Chapter 24

**Let's see if we can get over 50 reviews this time. c; Love you all. **

* * *

Marlene tugged a sweatshirt over her head, put on fresh sweatpants, got a blanket from her bed and the book she was talking about, then went to the living room, dragging the blanket behind her, almost childlike. _Reverting to childhood habits when ill. Not uncommon. _Sherlock smirked. She sat down carefully, making sure to retain her balance, then finally succumbed to the mind-numbing exhaustion, sprawling out on the sofa, pulling the blanket over her cold legs. Even after fifteen minutes in water that felt like molten lava, she was still freezing. Her neck, stiff from lying back on the rigid arm of the sofa, gave up its weary fight; her head fell into his lap. Sherlock recoiled at first, no one had touched his up per thighs in nearly ten years. He'd allow it this time. Normally he didn't care for physical contact with others, the human body was an amazing biological machine, yet so _revolting, _all the bacteria living in an average person...but he'd make an exception for her. She was sick; she had offered him company, albeit or not. As difficult as it was to admit it, he was coming to care for her.

Marlene felt Sherlock's muscles stiffen, tensing as her head drifted onto his thigh. _I'm not even doing it sexually. Come on._ She mentally whined. _All I'm looking for is a bit of sympathy. _

"No?" She asked slowly, almost reverently, beginning to rise, despite her inner monologue. He put his hand on her shoulder easily, to her surprise. She hadn't expected him to be the affectionate type...but then again, he was not a very predictable person. Her skin, remaining scalding hot, somehow broke into gooseflesh under his fingertips.

"It's fine." Sherlock said, relaxing. Her head lowered softly into his lap again, hair damp from the shower, darkened with moisture. "Now, which story do you like best?" He asked, then took a small risk. He wasn't sure if playing with her hair would send her into an episode or calm her; he was always painfully aware of the effect he had on her, but also becoming aware of how comfortable she was getting with him, thus leaving him unsure how to act. A situation he found himself unaccustomed to being in. Marlene blinked once, almost translucent blond lashes catching what was left of the grey daylight drifting in through the window, pondering.

"_The Tell-tale Heart._" She replied after careful consideration. He carefully brushed away a piece of hair that fell into her face. The feeling of his fingertips on her forehead sent electric wires down her spine. She closed her eyes in content, inhaling slowly. "One of the classics." She said in a breathy voice on the exhale. He looked at the table of contents, flipping through well-loved, yellowed pages. She pulled the covers over her shoulders, immersing herself in his voice, lulling to sleep, drinking the black coffee of his words. The world began to dissolve around her, his voice melting away like dark chocolate.

* * *

Once Sherlock finished the story, he realised he'd been reading the majority of it to himself. Marlene was curled up asleep, looking much different than the bitter, pained woman he had first encountered months ago. Her eyes were not clenched shut, she wore a completely tranquil expression. His fingers strayed to her hair, keeping busy, while his mind raced. John was probably back in 221B, but it didn't feel right to up and leave Marlene while she was sick. He tipped her head softly upward off his lap, getting up, placing a pillow seamlessly underneath her head. There. His next order of business was to inspect the tea roses, still half-in and half-out of the flat, mercifully uncrushed by his urgent, trampling feet, and picked them up. They'd look better in a vase, perhaps a nice surprise for Marlene? _I doubt Marlene gets many pleasant surprises, _He thought grimly, opening a kitchen cabinet in search of a vase.

* * *

Marlene rose gingerly to a sitting position, hoping that the dreadful sick feeling had left her. To her dismay, it remained, but was at least less intense. Everything seemed purely aquatic and strangely dream-like, not in the usual mid-attack way, but soupy and thick and dense; she felt as if she'd just woken up in the middle of something and had absolutely no clue was going on. Hands reached up, scratching bleary eyes in an effort to shirk the atmosphere. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table with the overhead lamp on, almost done with the familiar slim volume, one that had been her friend, her escape. Her neck slowly swiveled to the window, trying o process the information as quickly as her mind would let her. Darkness. How long had she slept for? She pooled the blankets around her shoulders, then looked back to the kitchen table. Something was...amiss. No, not quite amiss. Just slightly different enough that she could detect its presence.

It took her a few minutes to realise that a bouquet of pink roses was sitting in a vase on the table. Hadn't she heard a crinkling sound as she was busy vomiting her guts into the kitchen sink and then a cool gloved hand placed itself between her shoulder blades? So his original intention was to bring her rises. How sweet. She smiled, despite the roots of a migraine attaching to the base of her cranium. Finally, gathering strength, she rose to her feet with effort, fighting the sway. Marlene padded to the kitchen. Sherlock sprang out of his chair quickly.

"I found some nausea medicine in your medicine chest. Take it please." He said, sliding two pills across the table along with a glass of water. She dropped the pills into her mouth and downed the entire glass like a shot, more thirsty than she'd thought she was.

"Thank you, Sherlock." She said, placing the glass down solidly on the counter. "They're beautiful." Marlene turned, stepped two paces to fill the rift between them, and gave him what she thought would be a quick embrace. He tensed a bit, but wrapped his arms around the small of her back after a few seconds. She went to pull away, but he held fast, nose going to the slope of her shoulder, inhaling deeply. She had a soft scent, both the natural milk-scent of skin and faint undertones of vanilla from the soap she used. He let go after two minutes, but she held onto his forearms.

"Are you hungry?" She asked, cocking her head slightly. Her hair was completely messed up. He had forgotten the term for it...what had John called it? Sherlock may have deleted it, it not being essential information. _Bedhead_. It suddenly came to him.

"No,"He replied, going to the back to the table, leaving her empty, standing by herself. "Besides. I don't expect you to cook while ill." He ran a page along his fingertip.

"I'll order something for you, then." She offered, ready to reach for the phone. He shook his head.

"I'm rarely hungry."

"You're too thin." She said sternly, everything still dense and strangely disjointed.

"Only if you want anything." He continued as if he hadn't heard her, but sulking as if he had, turning a page.

"I couldn't eat a thing." She responded. He narrowed his eyes, calculating. She probably could, she just wasn't aware of the hunger. Marlene plopped down on the sofa once more, arranged the blankets, and turned on the television. She settled for a spot of garbage telly-one of those paternity test shows. The cushion soon sank beside her; she automatically leaned back into the body next to her. At least he didn't seem so shocked this time.

"You're going to get sick, you know." She said, in a strangely quaint tone; things were still foggy and the medication had left her a bit loopy. He snaked an arm around her shoulders defiantly, her head moving on his chest, angling toward him.

"I have an excellent immune system." He argued. "Now hush. The host is speaking." Sherlock focused on the programme with such intent that a corner of her mouth pulled upward. He could be so...obsessive. Marlene was both pleased and frightened by this trait, something he'd been teaching her in lessons, how to zone in and focus...

Lessons. She hadn't been to one in weeks. Were they even happening anymore, now that their odd little deal was becoming more and more physical? Marlene did miss them; she missed receiving his somewhat harsh critique and pining for his approval. Unhealthy? Yes. Completely irrational? She supposed not.

Sherlock felt Marlene's chest heave with a sigh and the weight of her body leaning back into him. John would wondering where he'd gone; John didn't deserve to know. He didn't particularly want to neglect one or the other, despite their faults.

"Marlene," He drawled. She inclined her ear slightly toward him, the light of the television radiating sickly hues on her already drained face. "Would you like to go somewhere with me?" An advert flashed on, red and blue light contrasted on the white walls of the flat and equally pale skin.

"Where?" She asked, lowering the volume of the television. She was actually curious; was he suggesting a lesson? The remote fell into her lap.

"The Michael Faraday Museum." He replied. Her eyebrows perched over her eyes in question. His hand strayed to her hair again, brushed through it with the thoroughness and carefulness of a doctor, trying to feel for any evidence of swelling from the small altercation with John. Nothing. A deluge of relief rushed through him. "It's not far. We could take the train."

"What is it?" She asked, squirming under her blanket, trying to get comfortable.

"A science museum, including the set-up of a nineteenth-century laboratory." He responded, moving minutely to accommodate her. She nodded, mulling it over.

"Is it a date?" She asked, the question coming from nowhere. Sherlock closed his in a stern line, remembering what John had said a date was: _When two people who like each other go out and have fun. _

"Yes," He said without hesitation, feeling her cheek grow plump with a smile on his chest.. As far as he knew, she liked him, and he liked her. It fit the requirements of a date. "Friday around three o'clock?"

"Perfect." She answered, as the man on the telly was declared to in fact be the father.


	25. Chapter 25

**Alright, here's chapter 25 everyone. Hope you like it!**

* * *

Marlene took a step back from her wardrobe, trying to take everything in at once. Different-coloured jumpers, hooded sweatshirts, frilly dress shirts, skirts and pants of varying material. What would be appropriate?

_He's not going to care. _She grimaced as she pulled a white button-up blouse off of a wooden hanger. _The public will, though._ Sherlock didn't care about such trivial things, but she couldn't go out with him looking like a mess. There. A white blouse; it was a start. Now for bottoms. Black jeans. It was basic and nondescript and just forgettable enough that no attention would be drawn to her. He was taking a huge risk, taking her out in public. He hadn't exactly told her, but she pieced together through limited conversations with his brother (she still wasn't too keen on him, especially since the Diogenes club incident) that Sherlock had made some powerful and dangerous enemies for himself. Frightening as it was, it didn't deter either of them. She pulled on the pants, buttoned the shirt, put in tiny silver earrings. Presentable enough, she supposed, then went to the to put on a bit of makeup, but not too much, just enough to aid her cause. It would be a very discreet date, he was never sure of who could be watching, so no public signs of affection whatsoever. Marlene didn't mind. His presence was enough.

She looked in the mirror she shaded a lid lightly with taupe eyeshadow and dabbed mascara onto curled lashes. Decent. She heard a rapping on the door and grabbed her purse and jacket on the way out.

He could still see the roses-she'd kept them maintained-on the table behind her as she gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

"Wearing makeup." He commented while they walked to the main door. "How unusual." Marlene blushed despite herself, despite everything telling her no, that this venture wasn't safe.

The cold November air slapped her face as they made it outside; no one in their right mind would have gone out today with the wind screaming overhead and the dark clouds rolling in, but neither of them were quite in their right mind. Two huddled figures amongst sparse vehicular and human traffic, walking with purpose toward the tube station.

On the train, they decided to sit side by side, yet kept it impersonal enough so that passersby would not think to take a second glance, pulling out their phones, making a game of deducing passengers and texting one another their finds.

Neither person gave the man toward the end of the car much notice, other than the usual sweep: headphones in, baggy clothes, a London baseball cap, aviator shades. A tourist.

By the time the two reached the museum, their curiosity had peaked; Sherlock was suddenly hit with the fact that he knew barely any truly personal information about her; things that solely she would know. Sure, she took her tea with milk and one sugar cube (he always added a second one and she hadn't complained yet), the easiest way to get her out of a panic attack was to comfort her with gentle words and the occasional cigarette, he'd even seen her nude and ill, but he knew absolutely nothing about her family, except for the fact that her grandmother was from Norway.

"Marlene," He began, walking with her alongside of a wall-mounted plate-glass display case filled with old lab equipment. Her view was trained on a small burner.

"Yes?" She murmured quietly, keeping a decent distance from him, temporarily tearing her eyes off the . He admired her discretion.

"Where is your family?"

* * *

Well," Marlene began, walking among the columns on the exterior of the Royal Institute of Great Britain, wind tousling the top bits of her hair. She bit her lip before continuing, weaving in and out of the large marble cylinders to buy herself some time, and finally stopped behind one, Sherlock striding to a place beside her. The howl of the wind was making it near impossible to hear anything. She'd told him already that it was going to require a bit of explanation and that she'd rather talk about it after they finished looking at everything.

"My grandmother came here a while back when she was pregnant with my mum and when my uncle was three, in the sixties; she wanted to live away from my grandfather. I guess she really wanted a fresh start." Marlene stated, preoccupied, thinking on the exact reason why her grandmother left. The entire family kept it under wraps from the children, but she and her cousin were able to stitch some things together.

"He was abusive," Sherlock ventured. It was why many women just picked up and left.

"My cousin and I were never really told why, but only that they never got along. We found some letters under the floorboards of his house. He'd been having an affair." She replied, wishing like hell that she didn't have to have this conversation with him. "Our parents still don't know that we know. But anyway," He could see that she was happy to avoid the subject. "When he died- when my mom was twenty and Jorgen-"

"Jorgen?"

"Her brother. When he was twenty-three they all went to Norway for the funeral. My mum came back, since she was seeing a nice man named Michael Tate and things were getting pretty serious. Jorgen and grandma are still in Norway." She wanted a cigarette, but a sharp cough came up from her lungs and pierced her throat, ending that desire almost immediately. "Jorgen got a job with the police force over there, became an inspector. I used to visit every summer." A smile warmed her face at the memory, but evaporated quickly; a cool breeze in the summertime. "They've lived in a suburb of Oslo since I can remember."

"They?" Sherlock asked, filing the information away to later be carved onto Marlene's wall of the mind palace. He watched her intently, curious about the nostalgic look in her eyes. "I thought it was just your uncle."

"Him and his family. A wife and a daughter. Along with my grandma." She didn't offer anymore explanation, and his eyes searched for small details that her words didn't reveal.

"Why did your parents send you off to Norway during summer holidays?" He asked suddenly. Marlene looked down at her shoes, thinking of a pretty and roundabout way to answer his question.

"My mother thought it would be better for my mental and physical health." It was true, especially when Marlene started having her "fits," it seemed like her mother was a bit more eager to drop her off at the airport, that her Aunt always knew how to calm her down, that her cousin Annika always knew how to make her laugh. Her mother had worried about how Marlene was faring socially in school, and overseas, Marlene really flourished. "Uncle Jorgen would always let me take peeks at crime scene photos. I always did find them interesting." Sherlock smiled, and she looked up at him, matching his expression.

Her phone rang.

"Hello?" She asked. Silence for a beat, then pure horror and confusion twisted her brow. Sherlock's smile fell, he put a hand to her shoulder. "What? I mean, yes, of course. I'd do anything for her. I'll be there as soon as possible." She hung up the phone, closed her eyes, and leaned back on the huge, cold pillar.

"Marlene, what's happened?" He asked urgently. She was unresponsive for a moment, arm falling limply at her side, her hand releasing the phone onto the marble slab they stood on. He shook her once. "Marlene!" She opened her eyes at last, and he picked up the phone for her. Marlene held his hand and the phone, taking a breath before starting.

"Sherlock, my grandmother fell and broke a leg. I have to go back to Norway." This wasn't easy news at all. Marlene would have killed to avoid seeing the disappointment and utter loss in his eyes, although his face was a clay mask.

Neither noticed the quiet man in the London baseball cap sitting on the steps, hanging up his phone with a satisfied smirk; his Norwegian accent had been truly believable.

* * *

**Surprised? c;**


	26. Chapter 26

Marlene was hunched over her laptop, shoulders drooping as if the weight of the world was resting on them, when Sherlock entered the flat. Light blue irises immediately zeroed in on a large suitcase near the sofa, she would have to be gone for quite a while. _No. _His eyes darted to her computer screen, all travel sites scoping for the cheapest flight to Norway, all the soonest departing flights, and then wandered to the book loosely grasped in her left hand; he couldn't see the title.

"Don't bother." He said upon walking through the door, putting up a mental wall. This was going to hurt. She turned her head over her shoulder as he neared the back of the sofa, and sat the computer down. He practically threw an envelope at her. _Christ._ He was already in a terrible mood. She reached for the small white rectangle of paper that landed on the cushion next to her, opening the tucked-under flap.

A one-way plane ticket to Norway, first class, leaving at eleven o'clock am, tomorrow morning.

She felt like a complete git as tears swam to her eyes.

"Sherlock, you didn't have to-" She started, but he waved a hand at her to quiet her, and in that gesture she saw everything. Despite all that he claimed to be: a robot, a calculating, deducing machine, there was genuine sadness that flowed deep, the fabled strong undertow beneath stillest, coldest waters. _It will only be a month if she does well, _Marlene thought, trying to ease her own guilt.

"Section thirteen of our contract: 'Sherlock Holmes is willing to support Marlene Tate financially if need be, for instance, loss of home, death of loved one, et cetera, for the duration of the relationship." He plainly stated. She frowned. It was painful to see him like this, finally crushed, what John had been talking about, and she couldn't fathom how John had been able to deal with it.

"Well," She half-protested, shoving the envelope into his gloved hand. "No one's died and I'm not out on the street." She regretted this immediately. He shoved it back into her hand.

"This is an et cetera category." He replied. She shoved it back. "Stop being stubborn and take the damn thing." He threw it on the sofa cushion once more and she finally closed out of her travel sites; he was standing stiff and awkward, not knowing where to put his body, not knowing where he stood with her. She moved over on the sofa, reclining into the arm, then patted the seat next to her.

"Sherlock," She exhaled as he made no move to sit near her. "Come on. Take off your coat. Stay awhile." She looked over to him, looming and unmoving as a marble gargoyle, and flashed one of her mischievous grins, a look that had become so rare lately. "You can't give me a first-class flight ticket then try to leave."

This seemed to relax him and he shed his overcoat, throwing it over the back of an armchair, and joined her on the sofa.

"What are you reading?" He asked, skipping the formality of waiting for her to hand him the book and grabbing it from her hands. She didn't get angry, as most people would have; he did it out of curiosity and need for distraction, not meanness. Marlene looked over at him, trying to make a scene in her mind that she could save as his light eyes scanned the pages, trying to memorize the way that they captured the light and how shadows and different tones pooled on his face in the light of a dying day, and her teeth clamped down on her tongue like a vice until she tasted the iron flavor of blood, trying to bite back tears. Circumstance could be so _cruel;_ she had to leave when something maybe, possibly, _could_ have worked out between them.

"_Hedda Gabler. _A Norwegian copy." He muttered, tracing his fingers on well-worn pages, looking at her quizzically. "I didn't know you spoke. Fluently?"

"Sort of-"

"There is no sort of." He responded coldly, without missing a beat. "You're either fluent or you aren't." He handed the book back to her and she glared mildly at him, snapping it up in her grasp and sitting it primly on her lap.

"Ikke vær en esel." She snapped, and his head pulled back on his neck. He knew he had just been insulted, but wasn't sure of what was said. "Don't be an ass." Marlene said, tiring of his indignant expression. "I haven't spoken for a year or two and thought it would be good to brush up." Then, finally, she bit the bullet, said what had been tugging at her mind since he walked in, a ragged hand pushing hair out of her face. "Why are you acting this way? So...I don't know the word for it, and I write for a living. Jesus. Cold. On-Edge."

Poor girl was frustrated, Sherlock could tell by the way her hands moved, the way she was blinking more often than usual. _The trip to Norway. She's upset that she has to leave me. And guilty. _He concluded, unsure what to do with this information. On one hand, it made him feel strangely powerful, that he influenced her decisions, her moods, her feelings so much, but on the other, there was a certain level of guilt; he didn't want to cause her any more pain than he already had. Always seeking to make it better, to help her reach her full potential, he was finally out of answers. She had to leave, and that was that, as per the old maxim: I_t is what it is. _He figured it would be at least a month at the most, but a month would be too long. As difficult as it was to admit, he need her, too. He need to feel compassionate, to feel human, to feel like he was doing good for at least one person; protecting her. And now...

"You're leaving." He stated evenly, reciting as if it was a simple nursery-school fact. "You're going to be miles away for about a month, and I won't know how you're doing and what you're doing and where exactly you are." She raised a contemptuous eyebrow and narrowed her eyes at this, and he began to reformulate. "I won't know if you're safe or not..." He closed his eyes and took a breath before continuing, and on the last sentence his breath seemed to waver. Parting was painful for him too, there was some comfort for her in that. "I've...come to care for you, Marlene."

A soft smile on her face made it easier for him, she leaned on his shoulder. At least there would be no fear of rejection.

"What are we doing?" She asked him, sounding more desperate than curious, soft and with a different lilt to it than usual. Her eyes were glossy, but the last thing Sherlock wanted her to remember was crying.

"You're leaving me for a month, and I'll be here solving more crimes."

Marlene only looked up at him, the terribly unfair, cold man, who made her feel such guilt.

"For Christ's sake. My grandmother is severely injured." She interjected, and he looked at her so fiercely that she flinched. Fire and kerosene, only egging each other on.

"Do you think I don't know that?" He said, suddenly harsh and bitter, grabbing her by the shoulders. "Don't you think I'm as upset as you are?"He stared at her and watched the tears pour down her face like a silent film star, all there was in this moment was black and white, good and bad, everything was eclipsed by a large, ominous shadow. He crushed his mouth into hers, to get her attention, to get a response if anything. It wasn't sweet, like their first few kisses, it was angry and severe and intense; pent-up feelings were suddenly escaping pastures, easily jumping fences and going wild. Marlene latched onto Sherlock's lapels and he began swiftly popping the buttons of her blouse.

He'd turned off his sex drive long ago, always finding it too distracting to get anything done, but he dusted it off, took it out of its figurative box, and suddenly he _wanted_, he wanted Marlene, he wanted his fingers pulling on her short hair and her nails in his back and her legs around his waist. It was all a sensory overload, scent and sweat and sound, but he would go through with this, for her, before she left.

Sherlock fumbled a bit with Marlene's brassiere as they made their way to her room.

* * *

Marlene felt Sherlock's arm drape over her in the purple darkness of her room, illuminated solely by a streetlamp, and once the shades were drawn, only a soft orange tint seeped through.

Frankly, she'd been surprised that he had stayed with her afterward, she always had a preconceived notion that he would leave right away, a "money's on the dresser," type of thing. Thinking back on it, she should've known better, considering the way he held her in an iron grip the first time they had slept in a bed together, when they were caught by John and Lestrade. No, instead of leaving, he pressed his face into her neck.

Now, an hour later, he was stirring, reaching for his pants, which he'd hastily deposited on the bedside floor, finding a nearly empty pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter. She moved his arm gently, as not to disturb him, but felt his neck turn toward her anyway, went to her cupboard, and grabbed a dressing gown, feeling eyes trace her body as she shrugged it on. It was pleasant to feel desired. Sherlock kept his eyes on the doorway as she left the room, opening the pack and plucking out a cigarette. Marlene returned a few moments later with a chipped saucer.

"Here." She said, placing it on the nightstand next to him, withdrawing her hand both shyly and coquettishly as he reached to pull it closer, smirking at her flirting. "For ashes." Her dressing gown pooled around her ankles in a silky puddle as she crossed the room to her side of the bed, feeling eyes caress her hips, hearing the snap and click of his lighter, then tucked herself back into bed with him. He took a long, satisfying drag, arm again falling over a new-found lover. She ran her fingertips over his inner arm, over the scarred track marks, opened her mouth to say something, then promptly shut it.

"What were you going to say?"

Her skin prickled into gooseflesh on his. _Shit. _He always knew of her setbacks, he felt it against his skin. She turned her head diffidently away from him, almost smiling. That beshitted sex drive. Every time she did something pretty it made him want her more, like the times she brushed her hair from her face, when he detected a trace of accent in her voice- which was rare, today was the first time he'd even heard it. Things like these succeeded in making him remember why he'd packed it away and giving him an intense desire.

"Nothing," She muttered, still grazing fingers over his inner arm, deliberately, pensively. She finally looked up at him, straight into eyes that were mostly blue-green but varied in shade from day to day.

He extinguished his cigarette, crushing it into the saucer, then turned on his side, beckoning her closer. She turned on her side and sidled over; they fit together like spoons, his stomach cradling her lower back.

"University. Out of boredom. Once or twice a day at the beginning I would do a line of cocaine, as the habit progressed it became more frequent, at its worst I did a line every half hour or so. At night it was morphine or heroin, whichever was cheapest usually." He explained, pupils following the invisible lines she was tracing on his forearms with her fingertips. He smiled, satisfied; her fingernails had remained unbitten for at least three days. He was good for her, he assured himself, she seemed to be doing well when they were around each other. Marlene closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, then pushed the air out of her lungs through her mouth, a small sound escaping her lips, something similar to one of the noises he'd summoned from her not two hours ago, and his contented smile morphed into a smirk as a corner of her mouth turned faintly but noticeably upward. Sultry memories, the feelings of him moving in between her legs, their combined noises (which at first she was terrified of Mrs. Hudson or John, especially John, hearing). He rolled over for another cigarette; and the movement and absence of his warmth made her open her eyes, seeing the red scratches she left on his back and suddenly feeling the ache of the bite marks on her collarbones, shoulders, and neck. Her hand wandered over to them, _Battle scars, _she mused absent-mindedly. _  
_

"What got you clean?" She asked as he hunched, cradling the fire when he lit up. He glanced over, the cigarette pursed in his lips, snapping the lighter closed, and hell, she wanted to take something- a mental Polaroid, right then and there, she wanted to keep that moment forever. Her fingers were dancing on slowly bruising red marks on her neck, and a latent guilt arose.

"Before I start, did I hurt you?" He asked, and the concern in his voice was deeply unsettling. It did not become him. She shook her head quickly, that supercilious smirk coming back, and she felt more staid once it did. "Good. It was the combined effort of my brother and Lestrade. I always enjoyed puzzles since childhood, I always hung around crime scenes; I always knew exactly what had happened. Most Inspectors rarely took me seriously; however, how many would take a strung-out junkie seriously?"

"Don't talk about yourself like that." Marlene scolded softly, and he rolled his eyes over his cigarette. Marlene. She always did have a rather high opinion of him, even if she refused to show it.

"My brother's connections allowed him to get me an under-the-table job at Scotland Yard with Lestrade. I was high as a fucking kite for my first case, a murder-suicide. Lestrade knew it; he made a deal: for each month without drugs, I would get another case." Marlene's head lolled onto his shoulder, and he looked down at the crown of her head. She hadn't been awful. In fact, it was very good, and again he remembered why the sex drive had been turned off in the first place. Just another distraction, and combined with his deductions it could be downright overwhelming, a sensory overload that left him reeling for sometimes days afterward: how he could tell when she was satisfied, how he could tell that she was close depending on the certain way her breath hitched-

Although she had been strangely reserved at first, trying to make as little sound as possible, obviously self-conscious, and she settled for faint whimpers, choked-back breaths that made it worse for him; he wanted to her her moan, he wanted his name in her throat.

_"Cry for me Marlene, scream for me," He practically snarled, tugging at her ear with his teeth. _

She had blushed pink at that and from then on, it was loud.

Marlene plucked the cigarette from his mouth, and took a long drag, glancing over to the person sharing her bed, waiting to see an offended reaction, but instead, a slow smile spread on his face and an arm snaked around her hip, pulling her close, warm skin-on-skin.

"Now it's your turn." He said, and she cocked her head in question. "You have to tell me something. That's how it works, isn't it? A secret for a secret."

"I'm not that interesting." She commented flatly, thinking of what he already didn't know about her. His expression was still expectant, waiting. _Damn. _"Well...I was engaged once." His eyebrows raised and for a moment she thought he would leave then and there, sore and upset that he hadn't figured it out before she told him. He grabbed her left hand. No mark where an engagement ring had been. "I refused to wear it. I didn't care for him. I had a nervous breakdown in front of him and he left me. It was something our families pushed us into." She tried to elaborate all at once. He shrugged, grabbing her once more, pulling her closer.

"What was his name?" He asked, mouth on her ear, the sound of breathing and heartbeats in the still room.

"Mark," She replied slowly, wondering what he was getting at.

"Was he as good in bed as I am?" Sherlock murmured. She stifled a laugh, now realising: he was scoping out the competition, real or imagined, past or present.

"No." She responded. "You're too good to me," She sighed, thinking back to her misconceptions of him, from day one (_Pretentious bastard,_) up until right before they bedded each other (she thought he would probably be into something morbid and strange, maybe S & M or chemical play, considering all the odd things he did in his spare time), knowing now how wrong she'd been. Instead of the weird fetishes she expected, he was gentle yet appropriately rough. "And an excellent lover," She whispered, adding as an afterthought, his hand traveling lower, smile growing on her face as she leaned over and sprawled out on his chest to reach the ashtray. He took the cigarette from her, considering it before flicking the ash onto the saucer, feeling her skin shift on his, a cold piece he hadn't touched. He inhaled sifting smoke for relaxation, a distraction before speaking to her, a distraction before speaking to her, before he wanted to tell her what could be the last exchange in months.

"You're leaving," He said at last, and she looked over at the hurt in his eyes, a little miffed he kept bringing it up. A perfect moment, and then that. She narrowed her eyes minutely. _He would. _

"I know. I'll try to get back as soon as I can." Marlene said, as if in penance. He finally snuffed out the cigarette into the saucer and turned, nuzzling his nose into her shoulder.

"Marlene. I need you to listen to me. I have some very bad people pursuing me. If anyone asks, you didn't know me. We were neighbors, but I rarely left my flat. That will be the story." He said. She nodded slowly, fear gently biting at her, wondering what she'd done, if she had doomed herself by getting close to him.

"I'll miss your constant violin playing at three in the morning." She said, tears starting to swim in her eyes. He smiled into her neck. Leaving was always bittersweet.

"I'll write. Nothing will come via post, though."

She nodded, closing her eyes.

* * *

Marlene woke at about six, showering then putting on a traveling suit, one she wore for the long-gone book tours; her _wonderful_ two-year "hiatus." The public would be on her like white on rice once she returned to Norway. Sure, she was just a writer, but a _reclusive_ writer, making a public appearance after two years? And one that wrote such disturbing things? There was definite interest in that. She considered the man in her bed. His eyes were closed, and she slipped a few pieces of paper into the pocket of his sport coat. His eyes opened suddenly, and she made as if she was searching for something on the floor near his clothes. Well, it would be fine, as long as she avoided mentioning-

Sherlock was still in bed, watching her dress curiously, finding the professional business suit and crisp white shirt to be quite charming on her, though it was a bit big on her. She'd obviously been in a better state of mind the last time she'd worn it. He got up, dressed alongside her, letting her straighten his collar, strange, foreign things that they both supposed couples should do, feeling something both bitter and beautiful when he tucked a piece of hair behind her ear for what he knew may be the last time.

It was pouring when they left, she opened an umbrella upon walking out and he hailed a cab for the both of them to the airport.

The rain would stay in his memory just as much as her resigned, unattached, whispered "goodbye," and his small nod, their careful movements like an exotic, clipped dance.

* * *

**Sorry for the late update, faithful readers. This was a difficult chapter to write, and on top of that, I had opening week for a musical production I was involved in. Thanks so much for your continued readership. I do hope you liked this one, it's a bit longer than usual. Let me know what you think!**


	27. Chapter 27

**Before beginning, I have to warn you that the next few chapters are going to be rather dark and Marlene-centric for a bit. I apologize. However, there will always be plenty of Sherlock and John and Mrs. Hudson. c:**

* * *

"Marlene!"

Marlene flexed her neck, looking in the direction of the familiar chirping voice, feeling like an anemic undertaker in every sense of the word- her tiredness, her increasingly morbid thoughts, the dark suit which made her look too pale and thin and lanky. Her rolling duffel trailed out behind her like an absurd extension of her arm.

Her cousin, a tall, attractive woman about two years older than she, with long brunette hair and blunt-cut fringe, waved her over. Marlene felt an easy smile grow on her face. God, it was good to be home. Annika's angular face and mischievous eyes, grey, the colour that ran in the family, were easy to spot in the crowd. Marlene had always looked up to her beautiful cousin; she'd always acted as a mentor to her.

She embraced Annika quickly, exchanging generic greetings, listening to the woes of daily life, expressing concern for their ailing grandmother.

"The doctor says it will be about a month. Marlene, mum and dad are thrilled to have you back! You don't know how it irritates them when you're home in England. They love keeping track of you." Annika said, giving her cousin's arm a playful slap, but feeling how bony it was underneath the suit. _She hasn't been well._ The brunette concluded; she was always the one to monitor Marlene and report to her parents, the only ones, it seemed, who really gave a fuck about Marlene's mental state, about how she was doing. Because Marlene's own parents, fucking Micheal and Astrid, didn't, clearly, they put her on all sorts of drugs during college, and Annika had a speaking suspicion that Jorgen didn't trust Michael at all. However, Annika smiled just the same. If she let on about any of this, Marlene would know, she was a very perceptive individual. A sudden glaze fell over Marlene's eyes. _Jesus Christ, _She thought, feeling her chest bottom out and her mind become detached. _Sounds familiar. _

* * *

"So," Annika went out on a limb as they drove through a packed city street, her thin, artist's hands on the steering wheel, a steel spinner ring on the right index finger. She knew the risk of asking this question. Ever since she made the remark of "keeping track," Marlene had become withdrawn, distant. "How is it over there?" She asked brightly.

"Good, I guess." Marlene said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. Her cousin narrowed those pretty, almond-shaped grey eyes.

"Don't even lie, Marlene." Annika said finally, wanting to know the truth. Something had happened, something monumentally important, at least to Marlene, who did have a tendency to make things bigger than they actually were due to the anxiety. "You aren't doing fine. That suit is almost a full size too big for you."

Marlene lowered her head. In a way, it felt good to hear someone who wasn't Sherlock notice these things, but it was also somewhat shameful, to know it was so...so _obvious. _

_It's a man,_ Annika realised suddenly, not knowing exactly how she came about this information, but knowing it just the same. _Woman's intuition, I guess. _

"What's his name?" Annika asked as she put her foot on the brake, one slender hand momentarily leaving the wheel and patting Marlene's forearm. She appreciated Annika's care, but tensed; finding that she wanted nothing to with anything- she didn't want to be touched, talked to, or even be in this fucking rental car. Marlene was an apathetic mess, and in the back of her mind it concerned her. She didn't want to exist.

"I can't say." Marlene admitted carefully. It was easier to peer out the window than meet Annika's curious gaze. "And if you kept up with the British newspapers, you wouldn't believe me." She muttered softly, quite aware of the media attention Sherlock had been receiving. He'd worked on a huge case, something to do with a big painting of waterfalls; she hadn't worked out all the details. She closed her eyes and leaned back into her seat, listless, feeling older than she was.

"Of course I've been keeping up with them. I want to see what's been happening. And you think I wouldn't believe you, after everything we've been through together?" Annika smiled easily, and when Marlene opened her eyes she felt a bitter envy toward her cousin, who could laugh and smile and love without such difficulties. Her white teeth were dazzling in the light of a setting sun. "So, who is he?"

Marlene stared ahead as Oslo swished by, contemplating what she was going to say. He had warned her not to tell anyone, but this was different; this was Annika, she wouldn't tell the press.

"Sherlock Holmes." She said, and it came across with an air of damning finality which scared her, how she said his name as if he were already a distant memory, as if she were talking about a dead man. Annika raised her eyebrows approvingly, trying to ignore the dark tone. She hoped like hell that Marlene wasn't going through a dark time again, that there wouldn't be another incident like in college, like when she tried to shoot herself. Annika remembered that day so well; hearing her aunt's tinny and strained voice over the phone, listening at the staircase when she was supposed to be asleep.

_We caught her playing Russian roulette with the revolver in Michael's drawer...no, she's fine...no, I am NOT putting her in the hospital...she does NOT need a therapist, Jorgen..._

__"Huh. How'd you manage to keep that a secret?" Annika wondered aloud, and Marlene simply shrugged, feeling that saying anything more could be dangerous.

Everything would have been easier if he had been sitting next to her.

Annika would have a lot to report back to her parents.


	28. Chapter 28

**Sorry for the hiatus everyone. There was a death in the family and there's been been other stuff going on too. Thanks for your support and continued readership. **

* * *

The cab seemed so empty.

It was as if the seat next to Sherlock was indeed occupied, but occupied by a void, by empty space where Marlene should have been ideally sitting, occupied by the memory of all the times they'd sat in cabs together, starting with the first time, when all three of them had been on good terms and were packed like sardines into a taxi. His hand went to his mouth as a lump began in his throat, trying to cough it up, get rid of it.

"You alright, sir?" The cabbie asked, glancing into the rearview mirror, seeing a pale man with dark hair going into a coughing fit.

"I'm fine." He snapped, disgusted with how thick his voice sounded, knowing hat somewhere, Marlene felt like this, and and all of a sudden remembering his desire to rid her of the sadness. For lack of anything else to do, his hands went into the pockets of his overcoat. His fingertips, bare this time, he had wanted to touch her face before she was gone, brushed a piece of paper. A piece of paper that definitely hadn't been there the last time he checked his pockets. He pulled it out of his pocket, unfolding it as he did so, seeing the familiar handwriting and knowing exactly who the note was from.

_Sherlock,_

_ I wish I knew what to say. I feel like we have experienced so much together, from disliking each other at first, to being a teacher and a pupil, to being friends and confidants, and finally to lovers. This will make leaving exceptionally difficult, and the hurt will only grow exponentially, for me at least. There hasn't been a safer yet more dangerous place for me than lounging in your chair at 221B; Just attempting to jot down all my thoughts is driving me mad. I fell in love with you very gradually, then all at the same time, like falling from high up an finally cracking your body on the ground. I can pinpoint it too, it all started when you taught me the basics of violin at 3 am in your flat, when I felt at home with your chin on my shoulder and my shoulder blades on your chest, trying not to lean into you and think "this is all I'll ever need," and being scared shitless when you kissed me for the first time. Love for me has always been emotional suicide, except the damn feelings undergo a __resurrection so that they can once more be killed. I saw you in the darkness of your flat with yellow streetlight pooling on the ground and licking your features and I made the decision to do it again. I don't know why. I didn't know I would be seeing you under the same light, but in my flat instead, and instead of an intimate greeting it would be an intimate farewell. Maybe if I had known, I wouldn't have done anything at all, maybe I would have called movers for my furniture, maybe I would have stayed in my flat and put on earmuffs, maybe I would forever be your elusive neighbor over in 221C, keeping to herself, save for grocery runs, and nodding to you on occasion. Things might have been easier that way. But do you know something? _

_I don't regret it at all. Fuck the easier way._

_I enjoyed falling in love with you. And I enjoy being in love with you._

_You're stirring in my (our?) bed as I write this. Time to put it in your coat pocket. _

_ All my love, _

_ Marlene_

The cab stopped in front of 221B Baker Street.

The tall man bit his hand until it bled, throwing money at the cabbie, showing a paper in his pocket, slamming the door shut and running through the threshold.

The cabbie counted the money-it was all there, exact change. What a rude guy.

* * *

Sherlock hadn't left his violin since he got home.

_Here we go,_ John thought angrily, turning the volume up on the television. Fucking Marlene. She would be just the one to cause this, to leave seemingly for spite, right when his best friend was finally happy. John didn't know why she left, some excuse, but she and Sherlock's little thing was probably getting too real for her and she got a case of cold feet. So she fucked and left. _Nice lady, real nice. _John fumed. The secondhand sting he was feeling increased exponentially with every note Sherlock drew out of the violin. It wasn't so effortless this time however; there was still a rich tone, but he was struggling with composition, it was lovely and _pained_.

John swiped his phone off the cluttered counter when Sherlock had his back turned, stormed to his room, dialed a familiar number. Straight to voicemail.

"Hi. This is Marlene Tate. Please leave your name and number, and I'll get back to you shortly. Thanks!"

Her fake-chipper voice made bile rise in his throat, he could imagine her saying it too, the annoying, sideward way she would look at him. There was a harsh beep.

"You bitch. You. Fucking. Bitch. You've done it. You really have." He seethed into the waiting line, holding the phone out for a moment to capture the odd, somewhat strained tones the violin was producing. "I hope you're proud of yourself." He whispered, drawing the phone back to his ear.

* * *

"Is she okay?"

Marlene moved her eyes over the handsome face of the young doctor, who seemed solemn but intensely smitten with Annika; the flat white cabinets exemplified by harsh fluorescent lighting which bounced cold light on their faces. His ultra-white yet somehow dull lab coat (Marlene supposed everything became dull after staring at it straight-on for five hours, even the whitest colour, bright as bleached bone) flapped as he put up a few x-rays and turned on a matching bright-dull backlight.

"What we have here is a clean break to the femur. Thank God it wasn't a compound fracture. An easy mend, but it will take about 7 months to heal, especially because of her age. Physically therapy will be long and strenuous, but your grandmother is a fighter."

"Oh, we know." Annika said, smiling. Marlene merely nodded, struck dumb and numb from the emotional overload. Everything was happening too soon, too fast, and the only person she trust enough to give her a possible solution was over a thousand kilometers away.

"Yes," Marlene seconded, after more time than was appropriate, frowning sourly, folding her arms. "When may we see her?"

"The sedatives are still in her system, so it'll be at least a day." The doctor replied, obviously disturbed by the family's contrast in mood.

The cousins nodded and promptly left the hospital, making the long drive out of Oslo to Jorgen and Frida's house.

Marlene was received with hugs, feeling finally secure in arms that weren't Sherlock's. Seeing her aunt and uncle made her feel less bland as a whole; they had always been very fond of Marlene, called her "Vår strålende forfatter,"-"Our brilliant author."

She smiled for the first time since leaving him and England.

She was home.

They had smoked fish and Reinsdyrsteik (she had forgotten how strong reindeer tasted, but liked it as much as she had in her youth). It was the most she had eaten since before her vomiting incident.

Later, pulling on her pyjamas, she looked to her phone. No texts from Sherlock (it was fine, she didn't expect them), but a voice message. Curious, she tapped the small notification and held the phone to her ear.

_"You bitch. You. Fucking. Bitch._"

The caller didn't leave a name.

She didn't need one. She knew exactly who it was, what they were talking about; the sweet, sad melodies of violin music in the background perfectly contrasted with the rough bitterness of the speaker's voice.

Marlene was careful while weeping herself to sleep in the guestroom.

She didn't want to wake her family.


End file.
